THE  PASSION  OF 
ROSAMUND  KEITH 

BY 
MARTIN  J.  PRITCHARD 


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THE   PASSION  OF 
ROSAMUND  KEITH 


UNIT.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  I/IS  ANGELE9 


THE   PASSION   OF 
ROSAMUND  KEITH 

MARTIN  J.  PRITCHARD 


AUTHOR  OF  "WITHOUT  SIN 


Can    TVhdom   be  put  in  a  Silver  Rod, 
Or  Love  in  a   Go/den   Boivl?'* 


HERBERT  S.  STONE  AND  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCXCIX 


COPYRIGHT,      1 899,      BY 
HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO. 


TO  MT  FATHER  AND  MO  THER 


You  gathered  wild  flowers  in  the  fields  and  brakes 
And  worthless  shells  and  stones  along  the  sands; 
Tou  brought  and  placed  them  in  your  parents'  hands, 

And  they  did  hold  them  precious  for  your  sakes. 

And  you  were  pleased.      I  too  by  sandy  lakes 

Of  life,  and  in  the  mountains  and  lowlands, 
Have  gathered  this  poor  nosegay,  and  it  stands 

For  moon  and  stars  that  my  ambition  takes. 

In  all  your  love  you  gave  me  all  my  life, 
In  all  my  life  I  gave  you  all  my  love, 

And  though  I  know  my  mountain  flowers  are  wild, 
And  from  my  gift  there1  s  little  to  derive, 

If  you  would  smile  upon  them  and  approve, 
I  should  be  happy  as  a  little  child. 

M.   J.    P. 


INDEX 


I.  The  Hunt  Ball,  . 

II.  "The  Year's  at  the  Spring," 

III.  In  the  Studio, 

IV.  Prunes  and  Prisms,    . 

V.  A  Young  Man's  Fancy,  . 

VI.  Man   Proposes, 

VII.  Between  the  Acts, 

VIII.  While  Houses  Sleep, 

IX.  The  Magistrate  Disposes, 

X.  Charity, 

XI.  Mr.  Kerquham  Speaks,    . 

XII.  Rosamund  Writes  a  Letter,    . 

XIII.  Paul's  Answer,    . 

XIV.  A  Garden  Fancy,       . 
XV.  A  Reason, 

XVI.  A  Retreat,    . 

XVII.  Rosamund  Reads  a  Letter, 

XVIII.  A  River  Reverie,        . 

XIX.  A  Cloistered  Life, 

XX.  Rosamund's  Record, 

XXI.  Young  Blood, 

XXII.  The  Torture  of  Tantalus, 

XXIII.  "Yes," 

XXIV.  «  No  !  " 

XXV.  Whom  God  Has  Joined, 

XXVI.  Lord  St.  Ives  Makes  an  Offer, 

XXVII.  Spoils,     .  . 

XXVIII.  A  Climber's  Village, 


PAGE 
I 


2132148 


XXIX.  High  Places  and  Persons, 

XXX.  'Mid  Mosques  and  Minarets, 

XXXI.  The    Wife    of   a    Gentleman 
Known  in  the  Best  Society, 

XXXII.  The  Gander  Fight,    . 

XXXIII.  Fallen  Among  Thieves,  . 

XXXIV.  In  Snowy  Arms, 
XXXV.  The  Prisoner  of  God,       . 

XXXVI.  Footsteps  to  Heaven, 

XXXVII.  The  Monk's  Story, 

XXXVIII.  In  the  Library, 

XXXIX.  The  Blood  Feud, 

XL.  A  White  Shroud, 

XLI.  The  Legend  of  the  Red  Deer, 

XLII.  The  Valley  of  the  Dead, 

XLIII.  The  Headman's  House,  . 

XLIV.  The  Black  Glacier,   . 

XLV.  The  Sin  of  Sex,  . 

XLVI.  The  Flood,   . 

XLVII.  The  Passion  of  Rosamund, 


3°4 


Well 


331 
345 
356 
367 

377 
391 
398 
408 


421 
427 

432 
440 

448 

457 
465 

472 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    HUNT    BALL 

"WHAT  a  glorious  day — and  killed  only  four  miles  from 
home !  Come  along,  uncle,  we  shall  be  back  in  time  for 
quite  an  early  tea  and  a  good  long  rest." 

As  Rosamund  Keith  pulled  her  horse  round  and  pre- 
pared to  lead  the  way  out  of  the  small  copse-edged  field 
where  reynard  had  died  the  death,  a  young  man  who  had 
dismounted  to  give  his  mare  a  breather  laid  his  hand  on 
her  bridle. 

"I  must  congratulate  you,  Miss  Keith.  You  deserve 
the  brush.  You  rode  splendidly.  The  way  you  took 
Shellerly  brook  was  magnificent." 

Miss  Keith  gave  a  little  laugh  as  she  leant  forward 
and  patted  her  horse's  neck. 

"I  think  we  got  rid  of  most  of  the  field  there,  didn't 
we?" 

Paul  Carr  could  only  nod  acquiescence.  His  eyes, 
his  thoughts,  his  whole  personality  were  too  absorbed 
in  contemplating  the  figure  before  him  to  speak.  Cer- 
tainly it  was  well  worth  looking  at,  and  most  men  would 
have  forgiven  his  silent  admiration. 

Rosamund  Keith  was  hot  of  the  Dresden  china  or 
pocket-Venus  style  of  beauty.  Rather  was  she  one  of 
that  splendid  type  of  womanhood  which  seems  to  be  the 
essentially  modern  evolution  of  an  English  girl.  Though 
more  than  common  tall,  the  perfect  proportions  of  her 
fine  figure  dispelled  all  accusations  of  ungainliness.  Her 


2  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

greatest  rivals  had  never  dared  to  say  she  was  either 
weedy  or  coarse.  Her  severely  plain,  well-cut  habit 
showed  to  advantage  the  gracious  outline  of  her  shoul- 
ders and  the  delicate  fulness  of  her  round  bosom.  From 
her  slender  waist  swelled  her  graceful  hips  in  a  fine 
amplitude.  The  outdoor  life  she  loved  so  well  had 
developed  every  budding  beauty,  and  from  constant 
exercise  she  had  acquired  a  free  swing  and  movement  of 
the  upper  part  of  her  body  that  was  intensely  fascinat- 
ing. Now,  as  under  Mr.  Carr's  restraining  hand,  Miss 
Keith's  mount  grew  impatient  and  curvetted  restlessly, 
the  girl's  lithe  body  swayed  easily  with  every  movement 
like  a  flower  in  the  wind. 

"That  young  woman  does  know  how  to  show  off  her 
points,"  said  Mrs.  Crooksley  of  Crooksley  Hall,  ill- 
naturedly.  To-day  was  the  third  day  running  that  Rosa- 
mund Keith  had  carried  off  the  brush  from  under  her 
very  nose,  and  she  was  feeling  very  sore  about  it. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  said  Lord  Clariston, 
M.F. H.,  wheeling  round  sharply.  "You  are  mistaken. 
I've  known  Miss  Keith  since  she  was  as  high  as  my  sad- 
dle girth,  and  she  couldn't  show  off  if  she  tried.  She's 
the  prettiest  figure  and  the  finest  seat  in  the  county,  and 
there's  not  a  woman  in  England  who  can  catch  her  when 
she's  in  the  first  flight." 

The  old  gentleman  made  a  general  bow  to  those  about 
him,  and  turned  away  for  home.  The  little  knot  melted 
away,  too,  as  mist  upon  a  mountain  side.  But  still  Paul 
lingered  at  Miss  Keith's  blidle  rein,  until  the  mare 
danced  with  impatience. 

"Quiet!  Lady  Bird,  quiet  now,"  murmured  Rosa- 
mund. 

Paul's  eyes  followed  the  course  of  her  slim,  well-gloved 
hand  upon  the  satin  chestnut  skin  of  the  creature's  neck, 


THE  HUNT  BALL  3 

and  then  almost  unconsciously  he  laid  his  hand  where  hers 
had  been. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  very  fashionable  to-night?"  he 
asked.  "Shall  you  be  very  late  at  the  ball?" 

"Oh!  I  hope  not!"  cried  Rosamund  with  enthusiasm. 
"It's  the  last  dance  of  the  season.  We  must  make  the 
most  of  it.  But  I'm  nearly  sure  we  shall  be  in  good 
time.  Laura  and  Honor  have  made  up  their  minds  to  a 
long  night  of  it,  and  if  they  really  want  to  do  a  thing 
Aunt  Margot  always  gives  way." 

"Two  against  one,  eh?  Then  you'll  promise  me  the 
first  two  dances,  will  you?" 

Rosamund  was  as  far  removed  from  a  coquette  as  it 
was  possible  for  any  feminine  entity  to  be,  but  she  would 
herself  have  frankly  pleaded  guilty  to  a  certain  vague 
pleasure  in  her  power  as  a  pretty  girl ;  so  she  poised  her 
head  daintily  on  one  side  and  promised  she  would  think 
about  it. 

"It's  not  worth  thinking  about,  Miss  Keith,"  said 
Carr,  kicking  at  a  withered  tussock  of  grass.  "If  I  were 
you,  I  would  just  say  'Yes'  without  thinking  at  all." 

Miss  Keith  bent  lower  over  her  saddle  and  let  a  mis- 
chievous smile  curl  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"If  you  were  me,  Mr.  Carr,  you  would  do  just  what  I 
mean  to  do.  Yes,  uncle,  I'm  coming." 

She  flicked  the  chestnut  mare  on  her  hind  quarters 
and  cantered  across  the  field,  her  supple  body  respond- 
ing again  to  the  lively  movement  of  her  steed. 

So  long  as  Mr.  Carr  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  Miss 
Keith's  smart  billy-cock  hat  above  the  bare  hedgerows, 
or  the  ring  of  her  clear  voice  on  the  still  air,  he  stood 
motionless  where  she  had  left  him.  When  all  but  the 
memory  of  her  had  disappeared,  he  strode  over  to  where 
a  lad  held  his  horse,  swung  himself  into  the  saddle,  and 


4  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

jogged  away  in  the  direction  of  Shellerly  Barracks,  where 
he  had  been  staying  with  a  friend,  off  and  on,  during  the 
past  hunting  season. 

"What  a  glorious  day  we've  had,  dear,"  said  Rosa- 
mund, out  of  sheer  lightness  of  heart,  to  her  uncle. 
"And  what  a  glorious  evening  we're  going  to  have." 

The  Honourable  Alban  Kerquham,  R.A.,  pulled  up 
his  big  brown  horse  on  the  brow  of  the  swelling  hill  they 
had  been  slowly  ascending,  and  looked  out  from  under 
his  shaggy  brows  across  the  finest  bit  of  hunting  country 
in  the  world. 

"Look,  my  child,  what  a  wonderful  effect  the  vague, 
almost  invisible  verdure  of  early  spring  has.  It  is  like  a 
soft  brown  velvet  that  hints  at  green  where  the  light 
catches  it.  Now  see  that  long  shaft  of  pale  yellow 
light  that  strikes  across  those  fields.  What  an  effect! 
What  an  effect!" 

Mr.  Kerquham  dropped  the  reins  on  his  horse's  neck 
and  arched  both  hands  above  his  eyes,  the  better  to 
enframe  the  picture. 

"It  is  lovely,  uncle,"  murmured  Rosamund,  scarcely 
above  her  breath. 

Upright  as  a  dart,  solid  as  a  rock,  Mr.  Kerquham  sat 
his  horse  and  gazed  at  the  scene  before  him  till  the  pale 
light  of  the  short  February  day  faded  feebly  behind  a 
thin  veil  of  gauzy  mist.  He  was  an  anomaly,  both  in 
character  and  in  society.  The  descendant  of  a  long  line 
of  Scottish  peers,  all  of  whom  had  been  as  Calvinistic  as 
they  were  blue-blooded,  he  had  when  quite  a  young  man, 
outraged  the  family  traditions  and  all  the  proprieties  by 
claiming  his  small  allowance  from  his  uncle,  the  Earl  of 
Kilbeggie,  and  going  abroad — not  to  make  the  "grand 
tour,"  as  befitted  a  young  gentleman  of  his  time,  but  to 
take  up  his  abode  in  a  doubtful  quarter  of  Paris  and 


THE  HUNT  BALL  5 

plunge  into  the  study  and  pursuit  of  "Art."  The 
Family,  which  consisted  almost  exclusively  of  the  old 
earl  and  two  sisters,  had  pronounced  him  dead — both  to 
them  and  their  world.  To  their  astonishment,  however, 
Alban  Kerquham  emerged  from  the  shades  to  which  he 
had  been  formally  relegated,  neither  a  ne'er-do-well  nor 
a  returned  prodigal,  but  as  a  successful  artist,  above 
whose  handsome  head  Fame  was  already  hovering,  and  at 
whose  doors  Fortune  was  knocking  day  and  night. 

But  though  the  brilliant  R.A.  loved  his  work,  and,  as 
he  said  himself,  "kept  his  heart  in  a  paint-box, ' '  the  hunt- 
ing instincts  of  his  race  never  died  within  him,  and  his 
quaint  home,  half  hunting  box,  half  old  farmhouse,  in 
Midshire,  where  he  spent  each  year  so  many  happy 
months,  was  as  dear  to  him  as  his  splendid  house  and 
wonderful  studio  on  Campden  Hill. 

A  day's  run  with  the  East  Midshire  hounds  was  an 
infinite  delight  to  him,  and  as  he  once  more  gathered  up 
his  reins  and  put  spurs  to  his  horse  he  re-echoed  his 
niece's  sentiments. 

"It's  been  a  glorious  day,  Rosie. "  He  flung  one 
lingering  glance  at  the  fast  fading  landscape.  "And  it's 
been  a  wonderful  sunset.  Come  on,  my  dear,  let's  take 
the  horses  in  warm." 

There  was  no  time  for  any  more  words,  for  Mr. 
Kerquham  set  Brown  Billy  to  a  smart  pace,  but  as  they 
skirted  the  town,  Rosamund  waved  her  hand  towards  the 
main  street,  where  already  gas  stars  and  devices  were 
being  lit  and  bunting  run  up  in  honour  of  the  ball  of  the 
year. 

"Look,  dear!"  she  cried  in  her  fresh  young  voice, 
"how  gay  it's  all  going  to  be." 

***** 

Rosamund  was  right.      How  gay  it  was  that  evening 


6  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

in  the  old  Town  Hall,  where  tradition  said  that  the  pol- 
ished floor  was  laid  on  carriage  springs,  and  where  the 
Regimental  Band  of  the  Fiftieth  Hussars,  quartered  at 
Shellery,  discoursed  the  merriest  dance  measures  to 
nearly  five  hundred  of  the  flower  of  the  hunting  and 
fashionable  world. 

The  grey,  distempered  walls  were  covered  with 
emblems  and  trophies  of  the  Sport  of  Kings,  and  the 
tall,  bare  windows  had  been  cunningly  converted  into 
silk-lined  alcoves,  in  which  wide-spreading  palms  and 
low-cushioned  chairs  encouraged — even  implored — tete-a- 
tetes.  The  shallow  stone  staircases  had  all  been  covered 
with  crimson  cloth  and  fringed  with  white  and  red 
camelia  trees  in  pots.  Tapestries  hung  before  the  doors, 
and  over  all  the  pink-shaded  lights  shed  a  roseate  glow. 

"It's  like  fairyland!"  cried  Rosamund,  as  with  her 
two  cousins  she  followed  Mrs.  Kerquham  up  the  impos- 
ing staircase. 

"What  rubbish  you  talk!"  snapped  Laura.  "One 
would  think  you'd  just  come  out  of  the  schoolroom 
instead  of  having  been  through  a  London  season." 

Laura  Kerquham  was  an  exceedingly  pretty  girl  in  a 
modish  way.  She  was  always  a  little  in  front  of  the 
newest  fashion — too  much  so  for  an  unmarried  girl,  most 
women  said — and  adapted  what  passed  for  her  manners 
to  her  company.  An  elderly  admirer  had  once  praised 
her  extraordinary  adaptability  of  temperament.  "You 
mean  she  is  all  things  to  all  men!"  had  rejoined  a  smart 
woman. 

The  remark  was  as  true  as  it  was  unkind. 

"Posing  for  an  ingenue,  eh,  dear?"  sneered  her 
younger  sister  Honor.  "Not  quite  suited  to  your  classic 
style,  Rosamund." 

Honor  was  a  colourless  copy  of  her  more  brilliant 


THE   HUNT  BALL  7 

sister,  plus  a  sour  expression  and  a  shrewish  tongue. 
She  was  practically  tabooed  by  the  young  men  of  her 
mother's  set,  and  the  knowledge  that  this  was  so  had 
not  improved  her  temper. 

But  Rosamund  was  proof  against  every  petty  disagree- 
able that  night.  The  lights,  the  passing  of  friends,  the 
crash  of  music,  the  hum  of  many  voices  touched  her 
fresh  nature  and  unspoiled  imagination  as  new  wine 
touches  men's  brains.  As  she  and  her  party  neared 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  were  stayed  a  moment  by  the 
crush  of  fast  arriving  guests,  her  slender  feet  in  their  satin 
slippers  figured  a  subdued  measure  beneath  her  flounces, 
and  her  heart  throbbed  in  her  white  bosom  for  very  joy. 

"By  Jove!     What  a  lovely  girl!" 

The  remark  came  from  a  group  of  men  who  were 
hanging  over  the  low  balustrade  criticising  the  arrivals. 

Rosamund  felt  herself  blushing  for  pleasure.  She  had 
longed  to  look  her  best  to-night,  and  now  a  stranger 
had  said  she  was  lovely.  How  good  the  world  was — she 
raised  her  eyes  and  caught  Paul  Carr's  gaze  fixed  on 
her — how  like  heaven. 

"Have  you  thought  over  those  dances?"  said  Carr's 
voice  in  her  ear,  as  he  reached  her  side. 

"I  told  you  I  never  think — I  do  things."  With  a  shy 
laugh  Miss  Keith  slipped  her  white  gloved  hand  into  the 
hollow  of  Paul's  pink  sleeve,  and  side  by  side  they  swept 
with  the  crowd  into  the  ball-room. 

The  salt  of  the  earth  and  the  chaperones  were 
ensconced  on  a  charmingly  arranged  platform,  from 
which  they  could  see  and  be  seen.  In  the  place  of 
honour  sat  the  Duchess  of  Midshire,  holding,  as  befitted 
her  position  in  the  county,  quite  a  court.  She  waved 
Mr.  Kerquham  to  her  side  as  he  led  his  wife  to  the  top 
of  the  room. 


8  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"My  good  sir,  why  on  earth  wouldn't  you  look  my 
way  at  the  meet  this  morning?  I'd  fifty  things  to  say 
to  you.  How  do,  Mrs.  Kerquham?" 

"Hounds  are  like  time,  Duchess,  they  wait  for  no 
man,"  said  Alban  Kerquham,  throwing  back  his  hand- 
some iron-grey  head  and  laughing  at  his  own  remark. 

"And  that  niece  of  yours  is  like  the  hounds.  How 
that  girl  rides!  Now  take  that  chair;  I'm  full  of  family 
news.  I  met  Kilbeggie  last  week  and  your  aunt,  Lady 
Charlotte  Lundy,  at  the  Glensides  in  Stirlingshire. 
Kilbeggie  was  as  grumpy  as  ever."  Her  Grace  of  Mid- 
shire,  who  was  a  large  and  co.mely  person,  chuckled  at 
the  memories  she  had  of  the  crusty  old  earl.  "And 
Charlotte  Lundy  was  more  starched  than  usual.  Women 
like  that  bring  out  all  the  vice  that  is  in  me.  I  always 
long  to  shock  her." 

The  Duchess  looked  over  each  plump  shoulder  to 
make  certain  that  Mrs.  Kerquham  was  not  within  hear- 
ing, and  then  leant  forward  and  whispered  to  the  Hon. 
Alban  Kerquham,  "And  I  did,  too." 

Then  she  went  on  aloud.  "But  that's  not  what  I 
really  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about.  I  want  you  to  paint 
my  portrait  when  we're  all  back  in  town.  Something 
really  nice,  you  know.  That  little  French  idiot,  Fer- 
nand,  whom  they  make  such  a  fuss  about,  made  a  regular 
frump  of  me — more  like  a  publican's  wife  than  anything, 
and  I  want  something  better  than  that  to  hand  down  to 
posterity." 

Mr.  Kerquham  bowed  assent.  The  Duchess  was 
scarcely  an  ideal  subject  for  his  brush,  but  when  a  man 
takes  up  the  r6le  of  fashionable  portrait  painter  he  can- 
not always  choose  his  sitters. 

"Can  you  begin  sittings   after   Easter?"   he   asked. 


THE  HUNT  BALL  9 

The  Duchess  nodded  her  marvellous  tiara  at  him,  and 
then  in  her  abrupt  manner  changed  the  subject. 

"I  say!  your  niece — Keith's  her  name  isn't  it? — is  quite 
the  belle  of  the  ball.  Just  look  at  the  crowd  of  men 
round  her.  She  certainly  is  extraordinarily  handsome. 
Not  at  all  in  a  modern  way,  though.  She  reminds  me  of 
some  picture  or  statue  I  have  seen  somewhere." 

"All  the  artists  say  that  Rosamund  is  the  living, 
breathing  image  of  the  'Clytie. '  ' 

"Ah,  yes!  to  be  sure.  That's  the  bust  with  the  ondule 
hair  and  lily  leaves  all  around  her  shoulders,  isn't  it? 
Well,  artists  are  supposed  to  know  all  about  that  kind  of 
thing,  aren't  they?"  Her  attention  wandered  once  more. 
"By-the-bye,  do  find  out  who  is  that  dreadful  little  crea- 
ture with  the  cropped  head  over  there.  She's  quite 
shocking;  got  on  a  high  frock  and  a  linen  collar.  I'm 
longing  to  know  if  she's  an  eccentric  American  or  a  New 
Woman." 

Meanwhile  Rosamund  Keith  was  enjoying  with  all  her 
heart  and  soul  her  position  as  belle  of  the  best  ball  of 
the  season.  The  rather  cold  statuesque  manner  which 
came  so  naturally  to  her  when  she  was  surrounded  by 
strangers  was  lost  to-night  in  the  frank  gaiety  and  unre- 
strained happiness  of  a  healthy-minded,  light-hearted 
girl.  The  velvety  depths  of  her  great  dark  eyes  were 
stirred  with  merriment  as  a  silent  pool  is  ruffled  by  a 
summer  breeze.  The  full  bow  of  her  rich  red  lips  was 
parted  in  smiles  that  chased  one  another  over  her  usually 
quiet  face.  The  fascinating  little  droop  of  her  head, 
which  had  always  accentuated  her  likeness  to  the  famous 
"Clytie,"  had  given  place  to  the  upright  carriage  that 
her  triumph  demanded.  To  Paul  Carr,  who  was  never 
very  far  away  from  her  side,  she  seemed  that  night 


16  THE  PASSION  Of  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

entirely  desirable;  yet,  man-like,  he  was  none  too 
pleased  when  he  found  some  one  else  sharing  his 
opinions. 

Rosamund  was  walking  up  to  the  top  of  the  room  to 
dance  in  a  quadrille  with  the  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the 
county;  an  antique  gentleman,  but  one  who  had  still  an 
eye  for  a  pretty  face  and  a  pleasing  if  old-fashioned  way 
of  turning  a  compliment. 

"By  Jove!  how  common  she  makes  all  the  women 
look,  doesn't  she?" 

Paul  Carr  started,  for  the  spoken  words  voiced  his 
own  thoughts. 

"Ah,  Lord  St.  Ives!  how  are  you?  Didn't  see  you  at 
the  meet  this  morning,"  said  Paul,  rather  coolly. 

"No.  Just  like  my  infernal  luck.  Had  to  go  to  town 
last  night,  and  only  got  back  an  hour  ago.  For  the 
Lord's  sake,  don't  tell  me  again  I've  missed  the  best  run 
of  the  season.  I've  heard  it  fifty  times  already.  They 
say  Miss  Keith  rode  wonderfully." 

Paul  did  not  answer  his  lordship,  but  contented  him- 
self with  watching  the  young  lady  mentioned.  His  eyes 
grew  dark  with  love  as  he  devoured  her  from  the  top  of 
her  delicately  poised  head  to  the  pointed  tip  of  her  shoes 
that  peeped  from  beneath  her  gown  as  she  paced  through 
the  dance.  She  wore  a  white  satin  gown,  severely  plain 
and  moulded  to  the  gracious  curves  of  her  swaying  figure. 
Light  as  the  morning  mist  that  hangs  on  the  brows  of 
hills  in  summer  time,  about  the  edge  of  her  bodice  was 
a  frill  of  cobwebby  lace  that,  as  she  moved,  floated 
indefinitely  above  the  exquisite  curves  of  her  full  white 
arms  and  enhanced  the  mysterious  charm  of  her  superb 
bosom  and  shoulders.  Against  the  polished  whiteness 
of  her  neck,  the  delicate  oval  of  her  face,  lit  by  the 
glorious  eyes  and  framed  in  a  low-growing  ripple  of  black 


TTIE  HUNT  BALL  i  I 

hair,  glowed  like  a  flower.  Above  her  dark  brows,  which 
were  so  fine  and  true  that  a  fairy  might  have  pencilled 
them,  and  just  where  her  hair  was  parted  shone  a  big 
diamond  star.  It  had  been  the  only  jewel  that  Rosa- 
mund's young  mother  had  ever  possessed.  It  had  been 
the  single  legacy  she  had  [been  able  to  leave  her  new- 
born infant  before  she  herself  died. 

Yet  Paul  Carr  thought  her  eyes  flashed  brighter  even 
than  the  gems,  as  when  the  quadrille  was  over  he  pushed 
his  way  to  the  dais  where  Rosamund  was  sitting  be- 
tween the  Duchess  of  Midshire  and  her  uncle. 

"Miss  Keith!"  he  cried,  as  with  his  broad  pink-clad 
shoulders  he  made  his  way  through  the  throng,  "they're 
going  to  dance  a  Highland  Fling.  It's  an  extra,  do  give 
it  to  me." 

"Bless  the  man!"  said  the  Duchess  in  her  loud, 
cheery  voice.  "Can't  you  let  Miss  Keith  be  quiet  for 
one  moment?  You  young  men  seem  to  think  that  no 
one  wants  to  look  at  or  speak  to  a  pretty  girl  except 
yourselves." 

"What's  that,  Carr?"  interrupted  Mr.  Kerquham. 
"A  Highland  Fling,  did  you  say?  Ah!  there  was  a  time 
when  I'd  have  danced  it  with  a  kitchen  chair  sooner  than 
stand  down.  Rosamund,  my  dear  child,  you  must  go. 
But  don't  forget  it's  your  last  dance  to-night.  She 
dances  it  better  than  any  girl  in  the  three  kingdoms, 
Duchess.  I  taught  her  myself." 

Down  again  into  the  press  and  throng  of  the  crowded 
ball-room,  where  uniforms  of  scarlet  and  blue,  pink  coats 
with  gay-coloured  facings,  gold  lace  and  glittering  but- 
tons made  sharp  contrast  with  snowy  shoulders  all 
framed  in  tender  blue,  rose  red,  soft  green,  dense  black, 
and  clear  white,  went  the  laughing  girl  and  her  partner. 

The    aged    Lord-Lieutenant   sank   into   Rosamund's 


12  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

vacant  chair.  He  wore  many  medals  on  his  breast  and 
a  great  jewel  on  a  riband  round  his  neck. 

"Ah!  ha!  Duchess,  we're  going  to  see  some  dancing 
now  that  will  be  worth  looking  at.  Mr.  Kerquham,  I 
congratulate  you  on  your  niece.  She's  the  handsomest 
young  woman  I've  seen  for  years,  and  she's  as  sweet  as 
she's  pretty." 

The  first  notes  from  the  pipes  in  the  gallery  above 
drowned  Mr.  Kerquham's  reply.  The  centre  of  the  big 
room  cleared  as  if  by  magic,  and  the  dance  began. 

"Southrons  are  no  good  at  it,"  muttered  Alban 
Kerquham  into  his  beard,  as  by  degrees  the  panting 
dancers  mingled  with  the  watching  crowd.  "One 
must  have  it  in  the  blood — and  have  been  properly 
taught." 

"Ha!  ha!  They've  danced  them  down!  Now  time 
them,  somebody,  and  see  how  long  they  can  last!" 

The  Duchess's  ringing  tones  were  heard  by  half  the 
room,  and  fifty  watches  were  pulled  out.  Then  Her 
Grace,  all  a-beam  with  interest  and  smiles,  rose  to  her 
feet  the  better  to  see,  and  was  followed  by  the  Lord- 
Lieutenant  himself  and  all  the  great  folk  on  the  dais. 

"Miss  Keith!  They're  all  watching  us.  Dance  your 
best,"  cried  Paul  Carr,  as  he  waved  the  encroaching 
crowd  back. 

Rosamund  flashed  a  smile  at  him,  and  then  with  her 
shapely  head  held  high  and  her  eyes  flashing  with  the 
joy  of  movement  and  of  living,  she  began  to  dance  in 
earnest.  Each  rounded  limb  and  supple  muscle  did  her 
bidding  well,  and  like  some  fair  flower  that  is  tossed  by 
the  wind,  she  danced  on  among  the  gaudy-tinted  throng. 
Now  one  white  arm  and  now  the  other  curved  like  a  sec- 
tion of  an  ivory  arch  high  above  the  dusky  coils  of  her 
wavy  hair.  The  jewel  on  her  forehead  twinkled  like  a 


THE  HUNT  BALL  13 

big  star;  her  scarlet  lips,  from  which  came  short,  sharp 
cries,  were  parted  and  dewy  as  a  budding  rose. 

"She's  rippin'!" 

"By  Jove!  As  good  as  a  play." 

"Help  me  onto  the  seat  so  that  I  can  see,."  cried  a 
girl's  shrill  voice,  and  like  weeds  that  grow  in  a  night 
a  score  of  women  sprang,  in  all  the  gay  glory  of  their 
smart  frocks  and  jewels,  onto  the  surrounding  benches. 

Rosamund  laughed  gleefully  at  the  sight.  The  young 
blood  that  loved  exercise  and_excitement  was  throbbing 
in  every  pulse. 

"Tell  them  to  play  faster — faster!"  she  cried,  intox- 
icated with  her  own  movements.  The  pipes  skirled  and 
droned  through  the  hot  air,  and  Rosamund's  feet  scarcely 
seemed  to  touch  the  floor. 

"Go  on — a  little  longer." 

Paul  Carr  was  flagging,  but  her  wqrds  spurred  him 
on.  Rosamund  had  caught  sight  of  her  uncle's  face  on 
the  crowded  dais,  and  his  evident  delight  in  her  triumph 
was  as  fuel  to  the  fire  of  her  energy.  She  waved  one 
white  hand  to  him,  and  the  slight  action,  so  heart  whole, 
so  unaffected,  caught  the  fancy  of  the  whole  room. 

"Bravo!  Bravo!"  cried  the  Duchess,  holding  her 
bejewelled  arms  high  and  applauding  loudly. 

"Bravo!"  shouted  Mr.  Kerquham.  "I'll  paint  her  as 
a  'Bacchante.'  ' 

"Bravo!  Hurrah!"  piped  the  Lord-Lieutenant.  "Say 
rather,  Mr.  Kerquham,  as  'Herodias's  Daughter,'  for 
she'd  dance  the  head  and  the  heart  away  from  any  man. " 

Then  the  whole  room  broke  into  a  salvo  of  hand-clap- 
ping and  "Hurrahs,"  and  Rosamund,  dazed  at  last, 
gave  one  last  shrill  cry,  and  holding  out  her  two  hands  to 
Paul  Carr,  murmured  between  her  quick-coming  breaths: 
"Stop  me  now!  Hold  me!  Take  me  away!" 


H  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

In  gracious  abandon  she  let  herself  drop  within  the 
shelter  of  his  circling  arms,  and  with  panting  bosom  and 
radiant  face  passed  through  the  laughing,  cheering 
crowd  that  made  an  easy  way  for  her  out  of  the  room. 

As  the  Kerquham's  carriage  rattled  down  the  stone- 
paved  sleeping  street,  Rosamund  leaning  forward  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  radiant  ball-room  windows,  while  on 
her  ears  throbbed  the  rhythmic  beat  of  the  well-known 
words: 

Do  ye  ken  John  Peel  with  his  coat  so  gay? 
Do  ye  ken  John  Peel  at  the  break  of  day? 
Do  ye  ken  John  Peel  when  he's  far,  far  away? 
With  his  hounds  and  his  horn  in  the  morning. 


CHAPTER  II 

"THE  YEAR'S  AT  THE  SPRING." 

THE  quaintly  straggling  house  that  formed  the  Kerqu- 
ham's  country  seat  glowed  redly  in  the  afternoon  sun. 
The  western  windows,  which  belonged  to  the  "best" 
rooms,  seemed  all  afire  and  flared  like  flaming  beacons 
across  the  countryside. 

In  the  long,  low  drawing-room  the  house  party  and 
some  half-dozen  visitors  were  drinking  tea. 

"So  you  are  really  off  to-morrow?"  sighed  a  young 
man  from  Shellerly  Barracks,  who  had  bicycled  over  to 
take  a  long  farewell  of  pretty  Laura  Kerquham. 

"Yes!  Isn't  it  lovely  to  think  that  in  twenty-four 
hours  we  shall  be  in  town?  Or,  as  near  it  as  unfortunate 
artistic  people  can  live.  I  often  wonder  why  my  father 
has  never  managed  to  fix  up  a  studio  in  Park  Lane  or 
Piccadilly.  Campden  Hill  is  awfully  out  of  the  way." 

Miss  Laura  pouted  delightfully  as  she  handed  her 
swain  a  second  cup  of  tea.  His  people  had  something 
to  do  with  trade,  she  knew,  but  they  lived  in  Grosvenor 
Square,  and  his  mother  gave  a  big  ball  every  season,  to 
which  all  the  best  set  went.  Besides,  all  the  new  peer- 
ages went  to  trade  nowadays,  so  Laura  Kerquham  showed 
her  pretty  white  teeth  in  a  perpetual  smile,  and  even  fore- 
bore  to  snap  when  her  mother  asked  her  three  times  for 
fresh  tea  for  new  arrivals. 

It  was  quite  the  break-up  of  the  hunting  season. 
Gentle  rains  and  warm  west  winds  had  filled  the  whole 

15 


1 6  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

air  with  the  scent  of  blossoms  and  the  rustle  of  baby 
leaves.  From  London  came  rumours  of  full  streets  and 
many  gaieties.  Day  after  day  the  meets  grew  smaller 
and  the  country  more  blind.  The  Duchess  of  Midshire 
had  set  the  fashion  by  moving  herself  and  her  great 
establishment  up  to  Berkeley  Square.  The  opening  of 
Parliament  closed  at  least  a  dozen  good  houses  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood.  Laura  had  become  restive 
and  Honor  sulky.  Mr.  Kerquham,  too,  felt  that  he  must 
get  back  to  earnest  work  in  the  studio  that  only  ranked 
second  in  his  affection  after  his  beloved  countryside. 
So  the  head  servants  were  dispatched  to  prepare  the  town 
house;  the  stables  and  coach  house  were  denuded  of 
everything  save  a  rough  pony  and  a  governess  cart. 
Room  after  room  was  stripped  of  its  bibelots  and  curios, 
and  packing  up  and  saying  good-bye  began  in  real  earnest. 

To-day  the  afternoon  tea  was  brought  earlier  than 
usual  into  the  white-panelled,  chintz-covered  drawing- 
room,  for  Lady  Sophia  Kerquham,  the  maiden  sister  of 
the  Earl  of  Kilbeggie,  was  about  to  betake  herself  once 
more  to  the  grey  old  castle  in  the  Highlands,  amid  wild 
moors  and  gloomy  pine  forests  that  had  been  the  cradle 
of  the  Kerquham  family.  Once  a  year  Lady  Sophia 
quitted  these  fastnesses,  and,  as  she  considered,  sacri- 
ficed herself,  her  opinions,  and  her  feelings  on  the  altar 
of  family  duty,  and  came  south  to  see  that  Alban  and 
Margot  Kerquham  were  ordering  themselves  and  their 
family  in  accordance  with  family  tradition. 

As  Lady  Sophia  sat  by  the  wide  open  fireplace,  where 
a  hundred  impertinent  little  flames  played  hide  and  seek 
among  the  piled  beech  logs  and  polished  brass  dogs,  the 
reddening  sunlight  shone  full  on  her  rugged  face.  She 
was  of  the  fair,  or  sandy  Scottish  type,  but  the  light 
veddish  hair,  which  was  smoothed  back  under  the  frilled 


"THJS   TEAR'S  AT  THE  SPRING"  17 

cap  of  her  coarse  straw  cottage  bonnet,  was  plentifully 
streaked  with  grey,  and  though  her  high  cheeks  were 
rosy,  a  multitude  of  fine  wrinkles  puckered  the  skin  about 
her  eyes  and  mouth.  A  long  full  cloak  of  serviceable 
grey  cloth  hung  over  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  a  little 
table  before  her  held  the  tea  and  plate  of  scones  that 
careful  Mrs.  Kerquham  always  had  served  during  Lady 
Sophia's  visit. 

Alban  Kerquham  sat  by  her  side.  The  strong  strain 
of  clannishness  that  is  inherent  in  every  true  Scotch- 
man's nature  bound  him  in  a  way  that  was  unaccount- 
able, even  to  himself,  to  this  hard-featured,  austere 
member  of  his  house.  He  alone  could  fathom  beneath 
her  narrow  ideas,  and  her  bigoted  notions,  the  sound 
judgment,  the  true  honesty  of  her  rough  nature.  He 
knew,  for  he  had  heard  it  from  his  own  father,  how  Aunt 
Sophia  had  given  up  her  girlhood  to  good  works  among 
the  cotters  on  the  family  estate,  and  how  her  early  wom- 
anhood, the  time  of  joy  and  love,  had  been  embittered  by 
the  death  of  her  destined  husband  in  the  Crimea.  Also 
how  she  had  sought  comfort  in  religion,  but  throwing 
herself  on  the  stony  bosom  of  the  Church  according  to 
Calvin,  had  only  received  threats  and  warnings  as  con- 
solations. 

That  had  hardened  her  nature,  and  the  isolated  life 
she  had  led  since  then  in  the  grim  family  mansion  with 
only  the  old  earl  and  a  handful  of  rough  Highland  ser- 
vants had  loosened  the  slight  hold  she  had  ever  had  on 
her  contemporary  world.  Yet  Mr.  Kerquham  liked  her, 
for  even  _her  sternest  dictums,  her  narrowest  and  most 
ridiculous  opinions  came  to  him  as  a  breath  of  moorland 
air  comes  to  a  man  sated  with  the  close  perfumes  of 
boudoirs  and  alcoves. 

The  old  lady  was  knitting  at  a  long  coarse  stocking 


1 8  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

as  she  took  her  tea  and  made  her  valedictory  remarks 
to  her  nephew.  She  held  it  a  sin  to  use  the  tongue  and 
leave  the  fingers  unemployed. 

"The  devil  is  ever  on  the  lookout  for  folded  hands," 
she  would  say,  when  she  produced  her  rough  work  before 
strangers. 

"Well,  Alban,  I  shall  have  much  to  tell  Kilbeggie  on 
my  return." 

"Only  good,  I  hope,  Aunt  Sophia.  If  your  visit  has 
been  as  pleasant  to  you  as  to  us,  I  trust  it  will  be  good. " 

"As  to  that,  I  live  my  own  life  wherever  I  go, 
nephew,"  said  the  old  lady  roughly. 

Alban  Kerquham  smiled  in  his  grizzled  beard  and  his 
brown  eyes  twinkled  beneath  his  bushy  brows.  He  was 
going  to  be  lectured,  he  knew,  just  as  he  had  been  fifty 
years  ago,  when  the  Sundays  at  Kilbeggie  had  been 
passed  in  chronicling  his  baby  crimes  of  the  previous 
week  and  exhorting  him  in  the  words  of  sundry  local 
deacons  and  elders  to  improvement  in  the  approaching 
one.  Lady  Sophia  took  a  sip  of  tea,  and  then  began  to 
knit  and  talk  at  the  same  time. 

"Your  wife  is  a  good  woman,  Alban,  and  sees  that  my 
rooms  are  such  as  I  can  sit  in  when  I  please,  but  this 
house  is  not  the  same  as  it  used  to  be.  It's  not  the 
same — and  you're  piling  up  a  load  of  sorrows  for  your- 
self, Alban  Kerquham,  with  your  indulgences  and  pam- 
perings. " 

She  shot  a  keen  glance  of  stern  disapprobation 
towards  the  big  tea  table.  Laura,  with  her  pretty  golden 
curls  fluffing  like  an  aureole  round  her  gamine's  face,  was 
sitting  with  her  elbows  among  the  cups  and  plates  and 
flirting  with  modern  frankness  with  half  a  dozen  young 
officers  who,  in  various  degrees  of  riding  and  bicycling 
dress,  were  lounging  round  her. 


"THE   TEAR'S  AT   THE  SPRING"  19 

"Laura  is  very  young,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham,  following 
Lady  Sophia's  eyes. 

"All  the  more  reason  she  should  be  put  under  some 
discipline.  Look  at  her  now,  sitting  like  a  kitchen  wench 
and  laughing  like  a  hoyden.  What  are  you  and  Margot 
about  to  allow  a  daughter  of  yours  to  behave  like 
that?" 

"My  dear  aunt,  to  reform  Laura's  manners  would  be 
a  Herculean  [task.  It  would  entail  taking  the  whole  of 
the  younger  generation  in  hand,  for  they  learn  their 
ways,  monkey-like,  from  one  another." 

"True!  true!"  and  the  old  lady  nodded  her  head. 
"And  from  some  of  the  older  ones,  too,  eh,  Alban? 
What  would  Kilbeggie  have  said  if  he  could  have  seen 
the  Duchess  of  Midshire  romping  the  other  night  with 
all  those  lads  and  lassies?  It's  a  bad  world — and  it  will 
come  to  a  bad  end." 

Alban  Kerquham  laughed. 

"But,  my  dear  aunt,  a  light  pair  of  heels  and  a  light 
head  don't  of  necessity  mean  wickedness." 

"You're  blinded — along  with  the  rest,  nephew.  Light 
heads  and  light  heels  lead  to  light  conduct,  and  a  heart 
that's  so  light  it  doesn't  exist  at  all.  When  have  you 
known  your  Laura  do  any  unselfish  thing,  or  say  a  kind 
one,  except  to  some  long-legged  boy  who  ogles  her  all 
the  evening?  When  does  Laura  ever  occupy  herself  save 
when  she's  curling  that  yellow  mop  of  hers  before  a  glass 
or  sticking  some  tulle  and  sham  flowers  on  the  top  of  it? 
I've  no  patience  with  a  girl  that  cannot  even  put  a  sober, 
decent  hat  on  her  head." 

She  added  irrelevantly:  "I  often  think,  Alban,  it's  a 
pity  the  days  are  gone  by  when  the  girls  were  whipped 
for  frivolity  and  idleness.  They  all  want  it  nowadays — 
except — " 


20  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Lady  Sophia's  harsh  face  softened  a  little  and  her 
voice  sank  to  a  lower  key. 

"Except  Rosamund.  Oh!  don't  think  I  approve  of 
her  altogether."  And  she  waved  the  stocking  bristling 
with  bright  steel  needles  before  Mr.  Kerquham's  face. 
"She's  very  emancipated — as  they  call  it  now.  Fifty 
years  ago  it  was  'unladylike.'  But  at  least  her  instincts 
are  healthy.  She'll  get  up  in  the  dark  of  a  winter's 
morning  to  ride  to  a  meet  ten  miles  off,  but  Laura  plays 
'slug-a-bed'  till  eleven.  Rosamund  comes  in  late  for 
luncheon — a  tendency  that  should  be  checked  with  a  firm 
hand — but  says  she  has  been  taking  the  dogs  for  a  run, 
or  fell  in  with  a  shooting  party  from  the  Towers  and 
stayed  to  watch  the  guns  beat  up  the  Long  Wood.  Your 
Laura  is  lost  for  an  afternoon,  and  explains — when  she 
does  condescend  to  reappear — that  young  Trevoir  has 
been  teaching  her  a  stroke  in  billiards.  Rubbish !  Both 
those  girls  are  modern.  Both  are  impossible  in  my 
eyes — but  with  a  difference.  Laura  always  smells  of 
smoke  and  patchouli;  Rosamund  carries  the  scent  of 
new-turned  earth  and  sweet,  clean  air  in  the  folds  of  the 
absurdly  short  cloth  gowns  she  will  wear.  You  brought 
those  two  girls  up  together,  Alban  Kerquham;  I  fancy 
you'll  find  you  have  made  a  mistake  with  one  of  them. 
Rosamund  sings  like  an  angel  in  church  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  and  plays  golf  all  the  afternoon ;  Laura  goes  to 
church,  too,  but  afterwards  sleeps  over  one  of  those 
wicked  French  novels  till  tea  or  a  young  man  conies 
to  wake  her  up.  Neither  spends  the  Sabbaths  as 
I  could  wish,  but  there  are  degrees  even  in  wrong- 
doing." 

"And  Honor—?" 

"Is  a  nonentity  and  a  shrew  at  that.  She'll  probably 
marry  the  first,  though.  Rosamund  is  a  good  girl  at 


"THE   TEAR'S  AT   THE  SPRING"  21 

heart,  and  I  pray  that  I  may  live  to  see  her  a  happy 
woman." 

"Amen  to  that,  Aunt  Sophia!"  said  Alban  Kerquham. 

But  the  sun  was  sinking  in  a  sea  of  crimson  and  gold, 
and  it  was  almost  time  for  Lady  Sophia  Kerquham  to 
begin  the  elaborate  exhortations  and  preparations  that 
invariably  preceded  her  start  on  a  journey. 

Near  the  Manor  House,  where  the  trees  grew  high 
and  close,  the  shades  of  the  early  spring  evening  were 
already  drifting  down,  but  out  in  the  open  country,  two 
miles  away,  where  a  great  space  of  rough  common  land 
lay  like  an  ill-stretched  carpet,  all  ups  and  downs,  it  was 
still  broad  daylight. 

Silhouetted  against  the  rosy  sky  were  three  figures. 
Paul  Carr,  stalwart  and  broad  shouldered,  looked  the 
epitome  of  athletic  English  manhood  m  his  easy  country 
suit.  A  small  lad  standing  at  his  side  was  gazing  at  him 
with  reverence.  He  had  just  won  a  game  of  golf  with  a 
record  stroke,  and  the  caddie  was  proportionately 
impressed. 

A  yard  or  two  away,  on  a  slight  elevation,  stood 
Rosamund.  She  wore  one  of  the  short  cloth  skirts  that 
always  roused  Lady  Sophia's  ire,  and  a  smart  little  Nor- 
folk jacket  was  held  closely  round  her  slender  waist  by  a 
deep  belt  of  russia  leather.  High  boots  of  workmanlike 
make  encased  her  feet,  while  as  she  stood,  tall  and 
straight  against  the  sky  line,  she  pushed  her  long  white 
hands  into  loose  gloves  of  pale  tan  kid.  A  tarn  o'shanter 
cap  was  pulled  over  her  rebellious  locks,  and  from  it  rose 
one  brillant  scarlet  quill  feather.  The  exercise  and  the 
quickening  spring  breeze  had  whipped  a  delicious  color 
into  her  cheeks  and  tipped  the  curled  edges  of  her 
ears  into  the  semblance  of  rosy  shells.  Little  dark  curls 
blew  across  her  eyes  from  time  to  time,  at  which  she 


22          THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

alternately  laughed  and  exclaimed.  Paul,  looking  up  at 
her,  thought  he  had  never  seen  so  fair  a  creature. 

"Here,  take  Miss  Keith's  things  up  to  the  house," 
said  Paul,  tossing  the  caddie  a  silver  piece. 

The  boy  started  off  at  a  lumbering  trot.  Rosamund 
laughed. 

"And  now  that  you  have  sent  away  my  escert,  what's 
to  become  of  me?" 

"I  am  going  to  see  you  home,"  answered  Carr, 
authoritatively. 

"But  it's  so  out  of  your  way!"  said  Rosamund,  more 
to  salve  her  conscience  for  taking  Mr.  Carr  in  an 
opposite  direction  from  Shellerly,  than  for  any  other 
reason. 

Paul  Carr's  face  would  have  insured  him  a  measure  of 
popularity  with  the*  female  sex,  even  without  the  golden 
halo  of  considerable  wealth,  which,  in  society's  eyes, 
cast  a  pleasing  radiance  over  his  well-cut  features.  His 
pale  olive  skin  and  fine  dark  eyes  had  been  highly  com- 
mended by  connoisseurs  of  male  beauty.  It  was  only 
the  more  thoughtful  —  or  the  envious  —  among  his 
acquaintances  who  said  that  the  full  curves  of  his  clean- 
shaven mouth  were  too  womanly  in  their  beauty,  and  that 
his  delicate  chin  indicated  a  want  of  grip  of  character. 
Even  his  eyes,  lustrous  and  deep,  had  been  called  too 
dreamy  and  introspective.  But  no  one  could  deny  him 
his  superb  height  and  magnificent  shoulders,  nor  belittle 
his  prowess  in  the  hunting  field  and  on  the  moors. 

He  was  a  man  of  few  words,  and  now  he  did  not 
speak,  but  merely  extended  one  hand  to  help  the  girl 
from  her  grassy  elevation.  Scarcely  touching  his  fingers, 
she  sprang  to  his  side,  and  then,  taking  a  leaf  out  of  his 
book,  walked  on  silently. 

They  had  gone  some  little  distance — half  across  the 


"THE   TEAR'S  AT.   THE  SPRING"  23 

links — when  some  sudden  impulse  made  her  stop  and 
face  round  towards  the  way  she  had  come. 

"What  a  shame  it  seems  to  have  to  leave  it  all,  just 
when  it  is  beginning  to  look  its  best,"  she  said. 

On  every  side  the  young  grass  was  springing,  cover- 
ing the  rough  ground  with  a  velvety  carpet.  The  gorse 
bushes  were  outlined  against  the  tender  verdure  by  sug- 
gestions of  golden  yellow.  The  bramble  thickets  were 
flinging  off  slender  shoots  of  transparent  green,  and 
where  the  sun  had  kissed  them  warmly  were  starred  with 
blossom.  Bluebells  danced  and  shook  in  the  freshening 
wind,  and  in  sheltered  spots  mauve  and  yellow  crocus 
cups  were  spread  upon  the  grass  as  though  arranged  for  a 
fairies'  feast. 

A  group  of  blossoming  hawthorn  trees  tossed  their 
white  arms  and  showered  a  scented  snow  of  loosened 
petals  over  their  knotted  roots. 

Rosamund  lifted  one  hand. 

"Listen!  there's  spring's  harbinger.  The  cuckoo. 
Oh!  how  dreadful  to  have  to  go  to  town." 

"But  you'll  like  it  when  you're  there." 

There  was  a  rough  palisade  before  them,  and  he 
leaned  his  elbows  on  it. 

"Yes!"  said  Rosamund  rather  reluctantly.  "I  am 
afraid  I  am  one  of  those  unstable  characters  who  enjoy 
each  thing  as  it  comes." 

She  leaned  upon  the  hurdles,  too,  so  close  to  him 
that  he  could  see  the  faultless  grain  of  her  pure  skin  and 
note  the  soft  fulness  of  her  dark  eyelashes. 

"I  don't  quite  know  how  it  is,  but  I  seem  to  find 
pleasure  in  everything.  I  am  just  as  happy  over  a  piece 
of  embroidery  as  I  am  at  a  dance.  Golf  gives  me  the 
same  delicious  sensation  of  freedom  and  movement  as 
riding.  I  love  my  singing — oh!  so  much — but  it  is  no 


24  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND   KEITH 

disappointment  to  me  to  shut  down  the  piano  and  go 
with  Uncle  Alban  to  the  studio  to  hunt  up  things  for 
him  and  set  his  palette.  I  am  dreadfully  afraid  that  I  am 
a  person  of  no  taste.  What  do  you  think?" 

She  turned  her  face  to  him  and  directed  the  level 
gaze  of  her  big  eyes  at  him. 

"I  can't  agree  with  you,  Miss  Keith.  I  have  always 
considered  you  as  having  tastes  above  the  average." 

"Oh!  please  don't  exalt  me  at  the  expense  of  my 
much  abused  sex,"  she  said,  parting  her  lips  in  a  sunny 
smile.  "I  am  no  better  than  any  one  else." 

"In  my  opinion,"  said  Paul  Carr,  "the  question  does 
not  admit  of  argument."  And  then  he  looked  at  her 
with  the  frank,  boyish  admiration,  which,  when  he  was 
in  her  presence,  always  astonished  him  by  conquering 
the  more  artificial  side  of  his  nature.  "I  think  you  are 
quite  the  nicest  girl  in  the  whole  world." 

"And  what  about  the  poor  others?"  laughed  Rosa- 
mund, taking  the  little  compliment  without  any  con- 
sciousness, and  not  changing  colour  in  the  least. 

"Oh!  the  others  don't  count,"  he  answered  impetu- 
ously. "They  are  most  of  them  a  lot  of  brainless  dolls, 
and  I  suppose  you  will  think  me  very  rude  for  saying 
so,  but  those  who  do  think  at  all,  are  as  a  rule  not  at  all 
improved  by  the  process." 

Rosamund  shook  back  a  wandering  curl  from  her  face. 

"Now  you  think  you  are  going  to  trap  me  into  an 
argument  and  get  me  to  say  all  sorts  of  ridiculous  things 
to  try  and  prove  to  you  that  every  woman,  merely 
because  she  is  a  woman,  is  ten  thousand  times  better 
than  a  man,  but  I  am  not  going  to  gratify  you,  Mr. 
Carr."  She  looked  out  over  the  fair  landscape.  "It  is 
too  lovely  an  evening  to  even  chop  logic." 

Suddenly  her  eyes  sparkled,  and  she  cried: 


"TH£   TEAR'S  AT   THE  SPRING"  2$ 

"Look  there!  He  knows  the  end  of  the  hunting  is 
near,  or  he  would  not  be  out  taking  an  evening  walk  in 
that  leisurely  fashion." 

She  pointed  to  where  an  old  dog  fox  was  slinking 
along  in  the  distance  among  the  gorse  bushes.  A  rabbit 
hung  helpless,  with  little  white  dangling  feet  and  drag- 
gled fur,  from  his  jaws. 

"I  am  afraid  he  doesn't  care  much  whether  the  hunt- 
ing is  over  or  not;  he  has  been  out  to  get  his  supper. 
But  are  you  not  sorry,"  he  went  on,  "you  who  are  such 
a  sportswoman  and  who  ride  so  awfully  straight,  that  the 
hunting  is  over?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No;  do  you  know,  I  don't  think  I  am.  The  other 
morning  when  Uncle  Alban  and  I  were  riding  to  the  last 
meet  it  was  as  warm  as  May.  In  the  meadows  that  we 
passed  by  there  were  a  whole  lot  of  funny  little  lambs 
bleating  and  skipping  about,  or  nestling  up  against  their 
mothers'  warm,  woolly  sides.  The  thrushes  and  star- 
lings were  out  in  the  damp  ditches  by  the  roadside,  for- 
aging for  fat  worms,  and  in  the  hedges  we  could  see 
nests  full  of  the  queerest  little  creatures  with  gaping 
beaks  and  bald  heads.  Sheelah,  the  mare  that  does  the 
work  on  the  farm,  had  had  a  little  foal  that  morning, 
and  I  had  been  to  see  it;  it  was  top-heavy  and  absurdly 
knock-kneed,  but  it  was  young  and  just  born.  I  sup- 
pose you  will  have  a  very  bad  opinion  of  me,  but  I  was 
quite  sorry  that  we  killed  that  day.  It  seems  such  a 
shame  to  go  out  and  kill  creatures  just  when  everything 
is  springing  into  life.  I  think  the  spring  ought  to  make 
people  more  merciful.  It  always  seems  to  me  as  if  the 
world  were  new  and  everything  that  is  in  it." 

"And  'that  is  why  you  are  glad  that  the  hunting  is 
over, "  said  Paul. 


26          THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KETTH 

She  nodded  her  head. 

*'I  should  not  go  to  a  meet  now  if  there  were 
another." 

She  raised  herself  from  the  rough  hurdles  and  stood 
upright,  and  he  followed  her  example.  He  was  half  a 
head  taller  than  she,  and  looked  down  upon  her  for 
a  little  space  before  they  started  to  walk  again.  The 
tarn  o'shanter  and  her  ruffled  hair  cast  a  shadow  over 
her  low  brow  and  deep  eyes.  The  evening  light  rested 
upon  her  mouth  and  the  soft  round  curves  of  her  chin. 
For  the  first  time  he  seemed  to  read  a  different  expres- 
sion in  her  face. 

"I  did  not  think  you  had  any  sentiment  about  you," 
he  said.  "I  have  always  thought  one  of  your  greatest 
virtues  was  your  common  sense,  and  that  you  had  such 
a  matter-of-fact  way  of  looking  at  life." 

"And  we  have  been  friends  for  over  six  months!"  she 
cried  in  mock  reproach.  "And  you  pretend  to  know 
women  well !  Every  one  of  us — the  lightest-hearted  and 
the  coldest-hearted,  the  most  selfish  and  the  most  silly, 
all  have  a  streak  of  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  'senti- 
ment' in  their  natures.  Of  course  it  comes  out  in  a  dif- 
ferent way  with  every  one.  One  woman  will  cry  over  a 
dog  and  strike  a  child ;  another  will  shed  tears  at  the 
theater  and  gaze  dry-eyed  upon  the  most  fearful  human 
suffering.  But  every  woman  has  a  soft  spot  somewhere.  " 

"And  yours?"  he  asked,  questioningly. 

"I  think  mine  is  for  nature.  I  am  not  very  fond  of 
people.  Perhaps  the  circumstances  of  my  life  have 
rather  set  me  apart  from  others  of  my  sex  and  age. 
You  see,  I  never  knew  my  parents,  and  although  my 
uncle  has  been  more  than  good  to  me,  although  my  heart 
overflows  with  gratitude  when  I  remember  what  he  has 


"THE   TEAR'S  AT  THE  SPRING"  27 

done  for  me,  it  would  be  false  of  me  to  pretend  that  I 
regard  him  absolutely  as  I  should  have  regarded  my 
father  and  mother." 

"But  your  aunt  and  cousins?" 

Rosamund  began  to  walk  slowly  on. 

"Aunt  Margot  and  the  two  girls,"  she  said.  "Are 
you  trying  to  draw  me  again,  Mr.  Carr?  You  have  been 
in  the  neighborhood  long  enough  to  know  what  they  are 
and  exactly  what  people  think  of  them.  Although  they 
are  my  relations,  I  am  of  the  same  opinion  as  their 
merest  acquaintances.  Aunt  Margot  is  a  clever  woman 
up  to  a  certain  point,  but  her  nature  and  her  upbringing 
have  endowed  her  with  a  hardness,  a  lack  of  charity, 
and  a  quality  of  calculation  which  to  me  are  not  com- 
mendable traits  in  a  woman.  Laura  has  never  had  a 
chance;  she  has  been  spoiled  from  the  beginning.  She 
was  so  pretty  as  a  child  that  she  positively  disarmed 
criticism,  while  her  temper  was  sufficiently  hot  to  defy 
control." 

"She  seems  to  have  a  very  good  time,"  said  Paul 
Carr. 

Rosamund  looked  up  at  him  with  incredulous  eyes. 

"Is  that  what  men  call  having  a  good  time?  To  be 
handed  about  in  a  ball-room  from  one  man  to  another 
like  a  shuttlecock ;  to  be  laughed  at  as  much  as  she  is 
laughed  with;  to  be  admired  one  moment  and  stared  at 
with  astonishment  the  next.  I  suppose  you  men  think 
that  if  a  girl  always  has  a  crowd  of  men  about  her  she  is 
absolutely  and  supremely  happy." 

"I  think  most  girls  take  care  to  give  men  that  impres- 
sion." 

"Perhaps  they  do,"  retorted  Rosamund.  "But  I  have 
known  Laura  to  dance  and  laugh  and  flirt  all  night  at  a 


28  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

ball,  and  then  sit  up  and  cry  till  dawn  because  the  one 
man  in^the  room  she  wanted  to  speak  to  had  taken  no 
notice  of  her." 

"She  is  a  strange  branch  to  have  come  from  such  a 
tree,"  said  Paul. 

"Yes,  she  is  a  sort  of  changeling,  I  think,  for  she  is 
unsympathetic  to  her  entire  family  and  does  not  even 
seem  to  care  that  she  is  so." 

"And  your  other  cousin?"  asked  Paul. 

"Oh!  Honor  is  quite  colourless  except  when  she  is 
put  out." 

"But,  Miss  Keith,  all  the  women  you  have  met  are 
not  narrow  minded  like  your  aunt,  vain  like  Miss  Laura, 
or  bad-tempered  like  Miss  Honor.  Surely,  there  must 
be  some  people  whom  you  like." 

Rosamund's  face  grew  suddenly  sad. 

"That  is  one  of  my  troubles,"  she  said.  "I  think 
there  must  be  something  wanting  in  my  own  nature,  for, 
as  I  told  you  before,  I  prefer  dumb  animals  and  the  trees 
and  the  sky  and  the  sound  of  rushing  waters  to  my  fellow 
beings." 

"Are  you  never  going  to  make  any  exception?" 

He  stood  before  her  in  the  path  and  looked  down  into 
her  face  with  burning  eyes.  His  gaze  waked  the  con- 
sciousness that  lies  in  every  woman,  and  she  blushed 
hotly  all  over  her  throat  and  face.  She  was  angry  with 
herself  and  more  angry  with  him  for  having  forced  from 
her  such  a  display  of  emotion. 

"I  really  do  not  know, "  she  said,  rather  shortly.  "I 
have  never  thought  of  such  things." 

"But  I  want  you  to  consider  the  subject,  Miss  Keith. " 

"But  why  should  I?" 

For  a  moment  he  sought  for  an  answer  that  was  suffi- 
ciently downright  to  suit  her  straightforward  nature. 


"  THE   TEAR'S  AT  THE  SPRING"  29 

"Well,  to  please  me,  Miss  Keith." 

That  seemed  to  amuse  her,  for  the  sternness  of  her 
mouth  relaxed  into  a  little  smile. 

"And  why  should  I  try  to  please  you,  Mr.  Carr?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  try;  I  want  it  to  come  naturally 
to  you.  I  want  you  to  feel  that  your  heart  prompts  you 
to  think  of  me,  and  I  want  that  thinking  to  grow  to  lik- 
ing, and  the  liking  to — " 

She  raised  her  hand  until  it  almost  touched  his  mouth. 
An  instinctive  shyness  urged  her  to  stay  the  words  she 
felt  were  coming. 

"Well,  I  will  go  as  far  as  liking,"  she  said,  "if  that 
will  suit  you." 

"And  you  will  think  of  me  when  you  are  in  town?" 

"But  are  you  not  coming  to  London  soon  yourself?" 
she  cried,  with  a  startled  air  that  betrayed  her. 

He  feigned  to  hesitate,  and  wrinkled  his  brows 
together  as  if  he  were  calculating  carefully  time  and  dates. 

"Well,  you  see,  I  am  not  quite  sure.  I  have  prom- 
ised to  stay  down  here  with  Jack  Calverly  for  at  least 
another  ten  days,  and  then  I  rather  think  I  shall  run  up 
to  my  place  in  Scotland  and  see  how  the  winter  has 
treated  the  grouse  and  the  deer,  and  whether  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  a  bit  of  fishing  to  be  had  in  my  own  par- 
ticular stretch  of  water." 

"You  might  as  well  acknowledge  at  once,  Mr.  Carr, 
that  you  hate  the  London  season,"  said  Rosamund,  with 
some  asperity  in  her  tone.  She  felt  a  little  ashamed  to 
think  that  she  had  perhaps  given  herself  and  her  feelings 
away  to  a  man  who  was  only  playing  with  her  after  all. 

"On  the  contrary,  Miss  Keith,  I  "adore  the  London 
season.  Town  from  May  to  July  is  a  paradise,  provided 
the  right  sort  of  angels  are  in  it.  You  see,  I  am  not  like 
you,  who  pose  for  longing  for  a  country  life." 


30  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"I  told  you  before,  Mr.  Carr,  that  I  am  an  unstable 
creature,  and  that  I  like  everything  as  it  comes.  If  fate 
ever  set  me  down  in  the  country,  and  hedged  me  round 
so  that  I  never  need  go  to  London  again,  I  should  be 
quite  happy,  and  I  suppose  if  the  same  thing  happened 
as  regards  the  town,  I  should  be  happy,  too." 

"Without  any  provision?"  he  asked,  laughing  and 
trying  to  catch  an  answer  from  her  eyes. 

"For  the  third  time,  Mr.  Carr,  I  am  not  going  to 
commit  myself,"  she  answered  him  back  with  a  toss  of 
her  head.  "Your  paradise  wants  the  right  sort  of  angels 
to  make  it  one;  I  desire  no  such  qualifications." 

*' Perhaps  you  think  you  are  angel  enough  to  make 
your  own  heaven." 

"Now  that,"  she  cried,  shaking  a  forefinger  at  him, 
"is  a  compliment  after  the  approved  manner  of  Lord  St. 
Ives.  I  don't  like  his  lordship,  I  don't  like  his  compli- 
ments, and  if  you  imitate  him  I  shall  not  like  you, 
either." 

She  ran  up  the  broad,  low  steps  of  the  house  and  into 
the  hall  where  Lady  Sophia  Kerquham,  a  weird  mass  of 
incongruous  wrappings,  was  taking  farewell  of  her  family. 

"Ah!  Rosamund,  you  are  just  in  time  to  say  good-bye 
to  your  aunt,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham. 

Lady  Sophia  looked  her  great-niece  up  and  down. 

"Those  skirts  again!"  she  said,  shaking  her  head 
sternly.  "And  what  a  cap!  It  is  easy  to  see  you  are 
not  a  vain  woman,  niece  Rosamund,  or  you  would  not 
get  yourself  up  like  that!" 

Her  sharp  eyes  glanced  from  Rosamund's  tall,  slender 
figure  to  where  Laura,  all  feminine  frills  and  fripperies, 
lounged  against  the  column  of  the  mantelpiece  and  shed 
smiles  upon  her  attendant  satellites. 

"All  the  same,"  said  the  old  lady,  "vanity  is  a  sign 


"THE   TEAR'S  AT  THE  SPRING"  31 

of  an  empty  head,  and  if  you  will  go  scouring  the  coun- 
try as  you  do,  perhaps  you  show  your  sense  in  putting 
on  clothes  that  will  stand  the  wear  and  tear.  What  have 
you  been  doing?" 

"Playing  a  round  of  golf  with  Mr.  Carr, "  answered 
Rosamund,  who  always  addressed  her  great-aunt  with 
the  direct  bluntness  the  old  lady  used  herself. 

"And  did  you  win?"  queried  her  great-aunt. 

"No,  Mr.  Carr  beat  me  to-day,  but  I  am  still  ahead 
of  him  on  the  score  we  have  been  keeping." 

"You  would  not  have  Scotch  blood  in  your  veins  if 
you  let  yourself  be  beaten  by  a  Southerner  at  the  game 
of  your  father's  country." 

Then  Lady  Sophia  proceeded  to  bestow  chill  embraces 
and  last  words  of  advice  on  those  about  her.  When  she 
neared  Laura,  the  girl  with  a  little  supercilious  sneer, 
tilted  her  face  up  to  her  aunt's  superior  height.  The 
old  lady  shook  her  by  the  hand. 

"It  is  evident  that  you  did  not  mean  me  to  kiss  you 
to-day,  niece,  or  you  would  not  have  put  all  that  stuff  on 
your  face." 

"I  say,  how  beastly  rude!"  drawled  a  satellite  as 
Lady  Sophia  turned  way. 

"Cat!"  said  Laura,  tossing  her  head  and  marching 
out  of  the  hall  into  the  drawing-room. 

"I  like  to  kiss  a  clean  face,  if  I  have  to  do  it  at  all," 
said  Lady  Sophia,  giving  Rosamund  a  hearty  smack  on 
both  cheeks.  "Good-bye,  Mr.  Carr.  If  you  will  come 
up  to  Scotland  and  play  golf  there,  you  may  be  able  to 
beat  Miss  Keith  one  day." 

Then  she  sailed  down  the  steps  into  the  waiting  car- 
riage, and  with  her  maid  and  her  dog,  her  wraps  and  her 
baskets,  was  driven  off  to  the  station. 


$3  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"She'seems  very  fond  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Carr,  watch- 
ing the  retreating  carriage  through  the  hall  door. 

"Yes,  I  think  she  is  in  her  way,"  replied  Rosamund, 
thoughtfully.  "They  are  all  rather  afraid  of  her  here, 
but  I  do  not  mind  her  much,  though  of  course  one  never 
knows  what  she  is  going  to  do  or  say  next." 

"I  think  you  inherit  some  of  her  downrightness. " 

"Do  I?"  queried  Rosamund.  "Well,  I  might  have 
a  worse  trait  than  that,  I  suppose." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  came  to  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room,  and  her  sharp  voice  rang  across  the  hall. 

"Rosamund,  come  in  and  have  some  tea.  You  have 
been  out  a  very  long  time."  A  swift  smile  and  a  well- 
assumed  air  of  astonishment  came  to  her  face  as  she 
caught  sight  of  Paul.  "Oh!  I  did  not  know  Mr.  Carr 
was  with  you.  Won't  you  come  in  to  tea?" 

Paul  looked  beyond  Mrs.  Kerquham  to  where  the 
room  in  the  dusk  was  filled  with  young  men  and  young 
women,  laughing  and  chattering,  whispering  and  gig7 
gling,  over  the  tea  and  cakes.  After  the  wild  beauty  of 
the  links  and  the  pure  sweet  air  of  the  countryside,  he 
felt  that  it  would  suffocate  him  to  go  in  there.  He 
wanted  to  remember  Rosamund  Keith  as  he  had  seen 
her  all  the  afternoon,  with  the  fresh  wind  blowing  the 
little  curls  about  her  face,  and  her  tall,  shapely  figure 
swinging  and  swaying  to  every  stroke  of  the  game  she 
played  so  well.  He  looked  at  her,  and  seeing  no  invita- 
tion in  her  eyes,  which,  indeed,  were  veiled  by  her  white 
lids  and  curling  lashes,  he  answered : 

"No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Kerquham.  I  have  to  get 
back  to  Shellerly.  I  hope  we  shall  meet  soon  in  Lon- 
don." 

"We  shall  be  very  glad  if  "you  will  call,"  said  Mrs. 
Kerquham,  in  her  primmest  manner. 


"  THE    TEAR^S  AT   THE  SPRING"  33 

"I  shall  come  as  soon  as  I  reach  town."  He  said 
these  last  words  to  Rosamund  as  he  took  her  hand  and 
held  it  for  a  brief  space. 

She  watched  him  down  the  steps  and  across  the  lawns 
to  where  the  thick  growth  of  evergreens  made  a  thick 
hedge  between  the  gardens  and  the  park. 

"Are  you  not  coming  in  to  tea,  Rosamund?"  called 
Mrs.  Kerquham  again. 

"I  think  not,  thank  you,  aunt.  I  have  all  my  things 
to  change,  you  know.  I  will  go  straight  upstairs,"  and 
with  a  thoughtful  face  and  a  tread  that  was  a  little  slower 
than  usual,  Rosamund  Keith  went  up  the  wide  oak  stair- 
case to  her  room. 


CHAPTER   III 

IN  THE  STUDIO 

UP  on  Campden  Hill  the  early  June  morning  was  delight- 
fully fresh.  The  noise  of  the  busy  Kensington  streets 
scarcely  ever  reached  there,  but  yet  the  air  was  full  of 
sound,  for  the  birds  in  the  shady  grounds  round  Holland 
House  were  getting  through  their  modicum  of  music 
before  the  heat  of  the  day  set  in.  The  Kerquham's 
house  stood  alone  in  a  garden  of  its  own.  There  were 
lawns  and  terraces  and  great  trees  all  round  it,  and 
on  such  a  fair  day  it  was  like  being  in  the  heart  of  the 
country. 

The  Honourable  Alban  Kerquham  had  been  in  his 
studio  betimes.  He  looked  thinner  than  at  the  famous 
hunt  ball,  and  seemed  dragged  by  the  heat.  Rosamund 
Keith  was  with  him.  She  wore  a  simple  frock  of  pink 
cotton  that  threw  a  rosy  glow  on  the  whiteness  of  her 
skin.  Her  rippling-black  hair  was  gathered  into  a  close 
knot  at  the  back  of  her  head,  but  no  amount  of  care 
could  keep  in  complete  order  the  little  rings  and  waves 
that  would  cast  a  faint  shadow  over  her  broad,  low,  brow 
and  the  flawless  skin  which  was  perfect  even  in  the  glare 
from  the  great  north  window. 

"Now,  uncle,"  she  cried,  brightly,  as  she  pushed  his 
big  chair  into  the  exact  position  before  the  easel,  "can  I 
be  useful?  The  Duchess  of  Midshire  does  not  come  till 
half-past  eleven,  you  know,  and  it  has  only  struck  half- 
past  ten." 

34 


IN   THE  STUDIO  35 

i 

Mr.  Kerquham  knitted  his  brows  and  peered  first  at 
the  picture  on  the  easel,  and  then  at  Rosamund. 

"Her  hands  will  never  do,  my  dear,"  he  said,  shaking 
his  head ;  "they  are  dreadful ;  they  have  got  to  come  out. 
The  Duchess  is  not  nearly  as  tall  as  you  are,  but  her 
hands  are  large  and  yours  are  small  in  proportion  to  your 
height.  I  think  you  might  sit  for  an  hour,  child." 

Rosamund  walked  over  to  the  model's  throne,  and  as 
she  did  so  rolled  back  the  sleeves  of  her  cotton  blouse  to 
just  above  her  elbows. 

"Now,  uncle,  how  will  you  have  me?"  she  said,  seat- 
ing herself  in  the  wooden  chair,  and  preparing  to  turn 
the  way  to  suit  him. 

Mr.  Kerquham  went  over  to  her  and  arranged  her 
hands — such  slender,  white  hands — in  the  position  that 
he  wanted. 

"The  Duchess  will  be  astonished,  I  should  fancy," 
laughed  Rosamund,  "if  her  own  hands  are  so  very  large. " 

"My  dear,  she  doesn't  think  her  own  hands  are  ugly," 
said  Mr.  Kerquham,  with  his  quiet,  slow  smile.  "All 
women,  particularly  when  they  are  very  wealthy  and 
have  every  advantage  that  money  can  give  them,  think 
they  are  perfect." 

He  walked  over  to  the  easel  and  began  to  work,  and 
Rosamund  watched  him  with  love  in  her  eyes  and  respect 
and  admiration  in  her  heart.  Her  uncle  had  been  her 
father,  for  she  had  known  no  other.  That  her  home 
with  her  aunt  and  cousins  had  always  been  congenial  to 
her,  she  could  scarcely  confess,  but  gratitude  had  ever 
been  her  leading  characteristic;  gratitude  and  sincere 
affection  for  her  uncle.  He  had  always  4oved  the  child ; 
first,  perhaps,  because  her  rare  beauty  had  appealed  to 
his  artistic  instincts,  and  afterwards  because  he  found  in 
her  the  sympathy  and  appreciation,  the  loving  care  and 


36  THE  PASSION   OF  ROSAMUND   KEITH 

tender  solicitude  which  neither  his  stern  wife  nor  his  frivo- 
lous daughters  chose  to  give  him.  His  own  children 
never  came  to  the  studio  save  to  bother  him  for  money 
or  to  pester  him  to  intercede  with  their  mother  with 
regard  to  some  party  or  jaunt.  Mrs.  Kerquham  looked 
upon  her  husband's  workroom  as  anathema,  although  it 
was  there  that  he  earned  the  large  fortune  that  kept  her 
in  extreme  luxury.  But  from  the  beginning,  as  soon  as 
she  had  learnt  to  balance  herself  upon  her  baby  feet, 
Rosamund,  all  unabashed  and  confiding,  would  pat  her 
fat  fists  upon  his  door  and  demand  an  entrance,  and  play 
either  quietly  or  noisily,  according  to  his  mood,  amid 
all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  big  studio.  And  now  in  later 
years  it  was  she,  and  she  only,  who  knew  where  every- 
thing was;  who  would  find  this;  tidy  the  other;  freshen 
the  flowers,  and,  if  need  be,  venture  a  loving  criticism 
on  colours  and  draperies.  Sometimes,  as  to-day,  she 
would  sit  to  her  uncle  for  her  beautiful  hands,  or  again 
for  a  turn  in  her  throat,  or  the  carriage  of  her  shoulders. 
She  was  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word  sympathetic,  and 
Mr.  Kerquham  could  never  work  so  well  as  when  his 
dear  Rosamund  was  about  him. 

"And  what  about  Mrs.  Toroni's  reception  last  night?' ' 
he  said,  presently.  "Was  my  intercession  with  your 
aunt  worth  while?  Did  you  enjoy  your  first  Sunday 
party?" 

"Laura  did,  I  think,"  said  Rosamund  frankly.  "She 
is  always  so  light-hearted  and  gets  the  best  out  of  every- 
thing." 

Mr.  Kerquham  smiled  a  little  to  himself.  Although 
he  avoided  as  much  as  possible  the  "world"  as  London 
knew  it,  he  was  not  blind  to  his  elder  daughter's  little 
peculiarities. 

"That  means  she  had  plenty  of  young  men  to  talk  to. " 


IN  THE  STUDIO  37 

"Oh!  any  number,  uncle.  They  all  like  her;  she  is 
great  fun,  you  know,  and  she  looked  so  pretty  last  night. 
She  was  wearing  that  blue  frock ;  the  one  you  always 
like  her  in." 

"Yes,  she  looks  nice  in  that,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham. 
"She  looks  her  best  in  blue.  Just  curve  your  fingers  a 
little  more;  that  will  do.  And  what  about  yourself? 
How  did  you  like  it?" 

Rosamund  laughed  rather  nervously. 

"Uncle,  I  am  afraid  I  am  a  very  dull  person;  I  was 
disappointed!  You  see  we  had  always  heard  so  much 
about  Mrs.  Toroni's  Sunday  parties;  that  all  the  artistic 
people  went  there,  and  that  they  were  quite  the  most 
amusing  things  in  London." 

Mr.  Kerquham  looked  up  at  her  from  under  his  shaggy 
brows.  "My  dear,  you  are  not  dull;  I  suppose  the  party 
was." 

"Well,  it  seemed  so  to  me,  but  then  you  see  I  do  not 
care  much  about  comic  songs,  and  people  who  get  up 
sham  quarrels,  and  mock  recitations,  and  bad  imitations 
by  amateurs  of  really  clever  people;  and  then  it  did  not 
strike  me  that  the  best  of  the  artistic  world  was  there. 
It  seemed  a  mixture  of  vapid-looking  young  men  who 
were  either  actors  or  painters  or  singers,  according  to 
whether  they  shaved  their  upper  lips  or  grew  a  mustache 
and  beard.  All  the  women  had  an  undefinable  at- 
mosphere about  them  [of  dyed  hair  and  too  few  clothes. 
It  was  all  noise,  and  the  only  method  of  expressing  pleas- 
ure or  amusement  was  to  shout  loudly.  I  saw  none  of 
your  friends,  dear." 

Mr.  Kerquham  laughed,  then  shook  his  head  a  little 
sadly.  "I  did  not  suppose  you  would,  Rosamund;  my 
friends  are  not  the  sort  of  people  Mrs.  Toroni  cares 
about.  They  are  people  who  work,  and  they  have  no 


38  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

time  to  sit  up  till  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  listening  to 
comic  .songs. " 

Rosamund  ran  on: 

"But  among  the  crowd,  who  do  you  think  I  did  see? 
Hamish  Lundy!  He  saw  me,  too,  and  somehow,  didn't 
look  best  pleased." 

Mr.  Kerquham  laughed  quietly. 

"Hamish  Lundy  at  a  Sunday  party!  Why,  the 
Kerquham  family  are  coming  out  in  quite  a  new  light." 
He  glanced  roguishly  at  Rosamund.  "My  child!  lam 
afraid  that  your  cousin's  Sabbath-breaking  is  a  crime 
that  must  be  laid  at  your  door." 

"It  brought  it's  own  punishment,  I  fancy,  dear;  for 
he  seemed  afraid  to  speak  to  me,  though  he  was  within 
a  yard  of  me  at  supper  time." 

"Conscience!  my  dear — a  clear  case  of  conscience! 
I  expect  his  people  didn't  know  he  was  there." 

He  painted  for  a  few  moments.  "But  surely,  Rosie, 
there  was  some  gleam  of  pleasure  for  you?  Did  you  see 
nobody  nice  at  all?" 

"Yes,"  said  Rosamund,  slowly;  "Mr.  Carr  took  me 
down  to  supper." 

"Paul  Carr,  you  mean,  do  you  not?" 

"Yes,  uncle." 

"Ah,  he  is  a  very  nice  young  fellow.  I  do  not  know 
much  about  him,  but  your  aunt  approves  of  him,  and  I 
hear  from  her  that  he  calls  here  sometimes.  What  does 
he  do?" 

"I  do  not  know,  uncle.      I  think  he  is  rich — " 

"Which  means,  I  suppose,  that  he  does  nothing?" 

"Well,  he  is  not  quite  a  drone  in  the  hive;  he  sings  a 
great  deal  for  charity.  He  told  me  once  he  wished  he 
had  been  poor,  and  then  he  should  have  been  a  profes- 
sional." 


IN    THE  STUDIO  39 

"Well,  and  what  prevents  him  being  one  now,  if  he  is 
good  enough?" 

"Oh!  he  is  quite  good  enough,"  cried  Rosamund, 
warmly,  "but  he  always  says  that  for  a  rich  man  who  has 
no  need  to  earn  his  living  to  go  into  a  profession  is  to 
take  bread  out  of  some  one  else's  mouth." 

"There  is  something  in  that,  of  course,"  said  Mr. 
Kerquham.  "What  other  characteristics  has  he?" 

"Well,  I  don't  quite  know.  He  is  very  quiet;  rather 
an  earnest  sort  of  man.  Uncle,  I  think  that  he  is  the 
sort  of  young  man  that  you  would  like." 

Mr.  Kerquham  laughed  and  laid  down  his  palette. 

"Do  you  think  so,  my  dear?  Well,  bring  him  to  see 
me  one  day,  and  we  will  have  a  chat  together.  There, 
I  have  done  with  you  for  this  morning.  Come  and  see 
what  pretty  hands  the  Duchess  has  now." 

He  slipped  his  arm  round  her  waist  as  she  came  to 
his  side.  "Yes,  my  dear,"  he  said,  gently,  "you  must 
bring  this  young  man  to  see  me  one  day.  There  is  the 
Duchess's  carriage  coming  up  the  drive.  Now,  run  away. " 

The  Duchess  of  Midshire  gave  an  unusually  long  sit- 
ting that  morning,  and  luncheon  at  "The  Hurst"  was 
half  over  before  the  artist  was  able  to  join  his  family  in 
the  oak-lined  dining-room.  A  wide  verandah  that  ran 
round  the  ground  floor  of  the  house  cast  a  pleasant  shade 
on  the  polished  walls  and  the  fine  old  silver  and  cut  glass 
that  was  scattered  about  the  table  in  luxurious  profu- 
sion. To  come  from  the  studio,  with  its  sharp  reflected 
north  light,  to  the  dim,  scented  room,  which  seemed  to 
enframe  with  its  open  bay  windows  the  gorgeous  golden 
sunshine  and  riot  of  scarlet  and  yellow  flower  beds  out- 
side, gave  the  painter  a  thrill  of  artistic  pleasure  and  an 
almost  unconscious  sense  of  thankfulness  that  his  life 
was  passed  amid  such  satisfying  surroundings. 


4° 

The  girls,  too,  looked  fresh  and  gay  in  their  bright 
summer  frocks,  and  their  faces  with  their  clear  skins  and 
luminous  eyes  gleamed  like  cameos  against  the  carved 
oak  walls.  The  hat  that  crowned  Laura's  curly  head 
was  like  a  great  bouquet  of  freshly  cut  roses,  and  made 
a  charming  splash  of  colour  against  the  rich  back- 
ground. 

"Are  you  very  tired,  dear  uncle?"  said  Rosamund, 
gently,  as  Mr.  Kerquham  sank  into  his  high-backed  chair 
and  slowly  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  "Has  her 
grace  been  more  than  usually  talkative  to-day?" 

"How  crooked  was  her  wig?"  asked  Honor,  with  her 
customary  sub-acid  manner. 

"Good  gracious,  my  dear!"  cried  light-hearted 
Laura,  with  her  pretty  mouth  as  usual  wide  open  with 
laughter;  "if  I  were  a  Duchess  I  would  never  care  if  my 
wig  were  straight  or  awry.  I  should  exercise  the  preroga- 
tive of  my  undeniable  position,  and  probably  go  about 
bald-headed,  especially  on  a  scorching  day  like  this." 
She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  and  waved  her  white,  dimpled 
hand  in  front  of  her  face  in  lieu  of  a  fan. 

"Well,  old  Lady  Trevannion  had  to  do  that  last  year 
at  Ostend  for  three  days  when  her  hat  and  postiche  blew 
into  the  sea  and  were  drowned,"  said  Honor. 

"I  heard  she  looked  such  a  guy  without  her  front,  and 
they  say — "  tittered  Laura. 

"  'I  heard,'  and  'They  say' — girls!  Girls,  when  will 
you  curb  your  tendency  to  idle  and  ill-natured  gossip? 
I  do  not  know  what  your  great-aunt  Sophia  would  think 
of  you  if  she  heard  you  talking  like  that." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  bent  slightly  forward  as  she  addressed 
her  daughters.  She  was  a  tall  woman,  and  upright  to 
the  extent  of  ungracefulness.  Her  features  were  typ- 
ically Scotch,  but  their  natural  ruggedness  would  not 


IN   THE  STUDIO  41 

have  been  unpleasing  if  they  had  not  habitually  worn  an 
expression  of  sourness  and  discontent,  and  if  her  plenti- 
ful iron-grey  hair  had  not  been  so  uncompromisingly 
dragged  back  over  a  high  cushion.  She  always  affected 
an  air  of  conscious  superiority  over  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Those  who  knew  her  best  always  described  her  as  being 
a  very  tiring  woman  to  be  with,  for  she  seemed  never  to 
rest  herself  nor  to  allow  others  to  do  so.  No  one  had 
ever  seen  her  taking  her  ease  in  an  arm-chair  or  indo- 
lently lounging  on  a  sofa.  She  had  never  been  known, 
even  by  her  husband,  to  fritter  away  half  an  hour  over 
the  pages  of  a  novel  or  the  harmless  foolish  columns  of 
a  society  paper.  She  always  preached  "duty,"  though 
no  one  ever  quite  knew  what  that  much-abused  word 
meant  in  her  case,  beyond  the  daily  ordering  of  meals, 
the  examination  of  her  household  accounts,  and  the 
strict  supervision  of  her  large  and  well-trained  staff  of 
servants.  Her  daughters  always  said  that  she  worried 
over  trifles.  That  was  not  exactly  true,  for  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham  was  far  too  superior  a  person  to  worry,  but  she  built 
mountains  out  of  mole- hills,  and  was  too  apt  to  regard 
the  smallest  of  her  own  affairs  as  being  of  universal 
importance.  She  had  bequeathed  her  temperament  to 
her  second  daughter,  Honor,  who  at  the  age  of  twenty 
was  as  carping  and  hypercritical  as  her  mother  had  ever 
been,  though  she  had  not  acquired  with  that  disposition 
the  finer  qualities  of  rectitude  and  firmness  that  with 
Mrs.  Kerquham  made  for  virtues. 

Her  inborn  ignorance  of  the  world  had  induced  her 
to  give  her  daughters  as  they  grew  up  the  license 
she  noticed  other  girls  enjoyed,  but  which  in  her  heart  she 
secretly  deplored,  and  when  too  late  tried  to  check. 
She  was,  however,  too  narrow  and  self-centred  and  too 
sure  of  her  family  to  see  that  Laura  and  Honor  were 


42  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND   KETTH 

going  all  the  wrong  way,  and  that  it  would  be  luck  and 
not  wit  that  alone  could  save  them  from  a  more  or  less 
deplorable  ending.  A  sharp  scolding,  modelled  on  the 
strictly  old  lines,  and  interlarded  with  many  quotations 
from  her  own  mother's  vocabulary  and  with  reminis- 
cences of  her  own  bringing  up,  of  which  the  girls  took 
no  notice  whatever,  was  her  sole  idea  of  discipline. 
Altogether  she  was  a  strange  example  of  the  old  order 
on  which  the  new  had  been  grafted,  and  which  had  borne 
fruit  in  the  guise  of  two  of  the  most  frivolous  and  selfish 
girls  in  London. 

Mrs.  Kerquham's  reference  to  Lady  Sophia  Kerqu- 
ham  rather  sobered  Laura,  who  in  her  heart  always 
dreaded  that  her  mother  would  carry  out  her  threat  of 
sending  her  up  to  the  north  of  Scotland,  to  be  under 
that  worthy  woman's  care  and  discipline.  Still,  she  was 
not  the  girl  to  be  brow-beaten,  so  she  tossed  her  head 
till  all  the  roses  in  her  hat  nodded  as  she  retorted,  "I 
should  advise  Aunt  Sophia  not  to  think  of  us  at  all  if  that 
process  is  likely  to  be  hurtful  to  her." 

"Besides,"  joined  in  Honor,  "the  old  lady  has  disap- 
proved of  us  ever  since  we  had  our  hair  down  our  backs 
and  said  'prunes  and  prisms'  in  the  schoolroom.  It  is 
true  she  likes  Rosamund,  but,"  with  a  little  sneer  at  her 
cousin  opposite,  "Rosamund  is  scarcely  a  good  specimen 
of  a  real  London  girl." 

Laura  gave  her  irritating  titter  again.  The  two  sisters 
were  never  weary  of  giving  little  spiteful  digs  at  their 
cousin.  Their  natures  were  too  utterly  shallow  and 
trivial  to  do  more  than  resent  her  infinite  superiority  of 
character  over  themselves.  Rosamund  changed  colour 
a  little  at  the  unprovoked  attack. 

"They  have  all  been  very  kind  to  me  always,"  she 
said  quietly,  "and  when  I  stayed  with  Lord  Kilbeggie 


IN   THE  STUDIO  43 

and  the  old  aunts  up  in  Scotland  I  got  on  quite  well  with 
them.  But  like  all  old  people  they  are  a  little  'grovey. '  ' 

"I  wish  you  would  not  invent  words,"  said  Mrs.  Ker- 
quham,  sharply,  while  she  drew  a  letter  out  of  her 
pocket.  "I  have  a  letter  from  Lady  Sophia  this  morn- 
ing to  say  that  she  means  to  come  to  London  this  season.  " 

"Coming  to  London!" 

"Not  to  stop?"  cried  Laura. 

"We  had  a  month  of  her  in  the  winter  at  the  Manor," 
gasped  Honor. 

Mrs.  Kerquham  turned  the  letter  over  and  looked  at 
it  doubtfully.  It  was  written  on  "Bath  Post"  paper  in 
a  fine,  very  close  hand. 

"She  suggests  coming  here,  but  I  think  that  it  will  be 
very  much  better  for  her  if  she  goes  to  her  sister,  Lady 
Charlotte  Lundy." 

"Oh,  but  she  must,"  said  Laura.  "We  cannot  pos- 
sibly have  the  old  thing  here ;  it  would  be  a  frightful 
nuisance,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  season,  too.  She's 
tiresome  enough  in  the  country." 

"With  her  knitting  and  snuff  and  other  horrors," 
cried  Honor. 

"Your  great-aunt,"  said  Mrs.  Kerquham,  severely, 
"is  certainly  a  little  old-fashioned  in  her  ways,  but  I 
should  not  for  a  moment  allow  that  to  interfere  with  her 
proposed  plans.  It  is  her  individual  comfort  I  am  think- 
ing of." 

This  was  scarcely  the  truth,  and  Mrs.  Kerquham 
knew  it.  She  was  quite  aware  that  she  did  not  want 
Lady  Sophia  to  come  to  Campden  Hill  in  the  middle  of 
the  London  season.  She  would  be  a  great  drag  on  her- 
self, and  there  would  probably  be  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
between  the  old  lady  and  the  girls.  Still,  she  lacked  the 
courage  to  say  so  outright.  She  glanced  helplessly  across 


44  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

the  table  to  where  her  husband,  silent  and  self-absorbed, 
was  quietly  eating  his  luncheon. 

"What  is  your  opinion  on  the  subject,  Alban?"  she 
said.  "Can  you  make  any  suggestions  as  to  what  is  best 
for  us  to  do  for  dear  Aunt  Sophia's  comfort  and  happi- 
ness?" 

Womanlike,  in  an  emergency  she  appealed  to  the 
man,  and  Mr.  Kerquham,  manlike,  fell  into  the  trap. 
He  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  pushed  his  plate  a 
little  to  one  side. 

"I  think,  my  dear,  that  under  the  circumstances, 
Aunt  Sophia  would  scarcely  be  in  her  element  here.  It 
is  the  summer,  you  know,  and  we  have  so  much  tennis, 
and  so  many  young  people  coming  perpetually  to  the 
house,  that  I  am  afraid  she  might  not  like  the  noise  and 
the  bustle ;  then,  again,  there  are  the  girls  to  consider. 
They  must  be  taken  out  at  night,  and  Rosamund  told  me 
this  morning  of  at  least  half  a  dozen  fresh  invitations  to 
dances.  The  girls  must  enjoy  themselves  while  they  are 
young. "  He  smiled  indulgently  at  the  three  faces  before 
him.  "And  I  think  your  first  duty  is  to  see  that  they 
get  the  full  measure  of  their  enjoyment.  I  am  afraid 
Aunt  Sophia  would  not  approve  of  that. " 

"Aunt  Sophia  would  be  horrified,"  said  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham, in  a  rather  depressed  voice.  "She  thinks  the  girls 
have  too  much  dissipation  in  the  country.  She  does  not 
realize  the  rush  and  fluster  of  a  season  in  town." 

"Poor  old  thing,"  laughed  Laura.  "I  suppose  she 
would  have  a  fit  if  she  knew  we  went  to  two  or  three  balls 
anight,  and  restaurant  suppers  and  music  halls. "  She 
put  her  hands  before  her  mouth  to  smother  her  amuse- 
ment. "My  goodness!  what  would  she  have  said  if  she 
had  been  at  Mrs.  Toroni's  last  night?" 

Mrs.  Kerquham  drew  her  brows  very  close  together. 


IN   THE  STUDIO  45 

"Laura,"  she  said,  severely,  "you  and  your  father 
persuaded  me  to  let  you  go  to  Mrs.  Toroni's  house  last 
night.  I  have  always  set  my  face,  as  you  know,  against 
going  out  on  Sundays.  You  get  more  than  your  fair 
share  of  pleasure  during  the  week.  Let  me  never  hear 
last  night  referred  to  again.  I  thought  over  the  matter 
very  seriously  after  you  had  left,  and  I  have  quite  made 
up  my  mind  that  it  must  be  the  first  and  last  Sunday 
party  you  and  your  sister  ever  attend." 

Laura  was  quite  clever  enough  to  know  when  she  had 
gone  far  enough  with  her  mother,  so  she  forced  the  smile 
from  her  face  and  looked  very  business-like,  as  putting 
her  elbows  on  the  table  she  leaned  forward  and  re-directed 
the  conversation  towards  great-aunt  Sophia. 

"Do  you  think  Lady  Charlotte  will  take  her  in?" 

The  idea  once  suggested  had  taken  root  in  Mrs.  Ker- 
quham's  mind.  She  folded  up  the  closely  written  letter 
and  returned  it  to  her  pocket. 

"Your  Aunt  Charlotte  should  feel  honoured;  besides, 
she  has  a  very  large  spare  room  and  nothing  like  the 
social  ties  that  I  have.  She  has  no  daughters  to  take 
about.  .  Rosamund,  I  should  like  you  to  go  and  see  Lady 
Charlotte  this  afternoon,  and  ask  her  for  me  if  she  will 
be  able  to  take  in  her  sister  from  the  tenth  till  the  end 
of  the  month.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  drive  up  to  Wim- 
pole  Street  this  afternoon,  as  I  have  promised  to  take 
the  girls  to  Hurlingham. " 

"Rosamund  was  asked  to  go  to  Hurlingham,  too," 
put  in  Laura,  who,  out  of  mere  caprice  could,  when  she 
chose,  be  fairly  good-natured  to  her  cousin. 

"Rosamund  will  do  as  I  ask  her,"  said  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham,  and  rose  from  the  table.  "I  hope  you  will  go 
soon,  Rosamund.  Remember  that  Lady  Charlotte 
always  drives  at  half-past  four  at  this  time  of  the  year." 


46  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Certainly,  aunt,  I  will  go,"  answered  Rosamund. 

As  Mrs.  Kerquham  swept  out  of  the  dining-room,  the 
three  girls  strolled  out  to  the  verandah. 

"Pooh!  how  hot  it  is!"  said  Honor,  with  a  little 
gasp.  "I  don't  envy  you  having  to  pelt  into  town 
directly.  Thank  goodness,  we  do  not  start  till  five!" 

"Well,  mind  you  make  it  all  right  with  Aunt  Charlotte, 
or  we  shall  all  be  furious  with  you,"  urged  Laura.  "Just 
remember  that  we  won't  have  Aunt  Sophia  here,  we  posi- 
tively won't." 

"I  will  do  my  best,  you  may  be  sure,"  said  Rosamund, 
brightly,  as  she  turned  into  the  house  to  get  ready  to 
start  on  her  pilgrimage  to  Lady  Charlotte  Lundy. 


PRUNES  AND   PRISMS 

Two  hundred  Wimpole  Street  was  typical  of  Sir  Alexan- 
der and  Lady  Charlotte  Lundy,  and  they  were  typical 
of  it.  In  the  downstairs  windows  were  wire  blinds  and 
red  brocade  curtains.  When  the  windows  were  open 
there  was  from  outside  an  ample  view  of  walls  painted  a 
pale  sea  green  and  plentifully  lined  with  yellow-faced 
family  portraits  set  in  cumbersome  gold  frames.  A  huge 
sideboard  laden  with  heavy  plate  faced  the  windows,  and 
a  row  of  stiff-backed  mahogany  chairs  covered  in  maroon 
leather  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  against  the  wall.  A 
gasalier  with  five  engraved  globes  swung  from  a  florid 
ornament  in  the  centre  of  the  ceiling.  On  the  heavily 
carved  mantelpiece  stood  a  marble  clock  which  was 
always  five  minutes  fast,  and  was  flanked  by  a  pair  of 
candelabra,  which  for  modelling  and  design  were  an  out- 
rage on  taste.  How  well  Rosamund  knew  it  all,  as  she 
passed  the  windows,  and  after  ringing  at  a  loud  clang- 
ing bell  and  knocking  at  a  huge  lion's-head  knocker,  was 
admitted  into  the  wide,  dim  hall,  which  even  on  this  hot 
afternoon  struck  icy  cold. 

"Her  ladyship  is  in  the  drawing-room,"  said  the 
family  butler  in  a  whisper  as  he  led  her  up  the  staircase, 
where  the  varnished  marble  paper  looked  chill  as  the 
grave. 

"Miss  Rosamund  Keith,"  announced  the  factotum,  as 
he  flung  open  the  big  double  doors. 

47 


48 

From  the  time  she  had  been  a  little  child,  and  even 
now,  Rosamund  was  always  conscious  of  a  feeling  of 
awkwardness  which  amounted  to  shy  stupidity  whenever 
she  entered  that  vast,  solemn,  hideous  drawing-room  in 
Wimpole  Street.  The  white,  watered  walls,  with  an 
irritating  pattern  of  small  gold  stars,  were  the  same  as 
she  remembered  nearly  twenty  years  ago,  and  she  always 
caught  herself  idly  wondering  how  it  was  that  Lady  Char- 
lotte Lundy  managed  to  keep  her  drawing-room  paper  so 
clean,  when  everybody  else  she  knew  had  to  do  up  their 
rooms  every  three  or  four  years.  The  centre  of  the  room 
was  entirely  bare  of  furniture,  and  gave  an  admirable 
view  of  the  huge  red  bouquets  of  cabbage  roses  which 
were  closely  besprent  on  the  green  ground  of  the  Brus- 
sels carpet.  In  front  of  the  centre  window  was  a  huge 
table,  monstrous  of  foot  and  shiny  of  top,  on  which  lay, 
ensconced  on  woolleji  mats  (Rosamund  had  made  some  of 
those  mats  when  she  was  a  little  girl),  various  standard 
works  bound  in  calf  and  uniformly  dull. 

A  case  of  medals,  popularly  supposed  to  have  been 
won  by  Sir  Alexander  Lundy,  stood  on  one  table.  An 
Indian  temple  of  carved  ivory,  and  two  baskets  of  wax 
fruits,  all  under  glass  shades,  decorated  another.  An 
Ormolu  head  of  Minerva  frowned  severely  from  the  top 
of  a  pink-faced  china  clock,  and  a  full  suite  of  carved 
rosewood  furniture,  upholstered  in  crimson  damask,  was 
ranged  round  the  room.  A  grand  piano  and  a  music- 
stand  languished  all  unused  in  the  far  vista  of  the  back 
drawing-room.  Some  water  colours,  painted  by  Lady 
Charlotte  and  her  sisters  in  the  forties,  hung  on  the  walls. 
The  whole  apartment  was  symbolical  of  the  abomination 
of  desolation. 

As  the  big  doors  closed  behind  Rosamund  a  large  form 
loomed  out  of  a  small  arm-chair  near  the  fireplace.  The 


PRUNES  AND  PRISMS  49 

girl  advanced,  for  she  had  been  well  trained  in  the  eti- 
que^tte  of  the  family,  which  forbade  the  hostess  to  leave 
the  hearthrug. 

"Good  afternoon,  Aunt  Charlotte." 

"Good  afternoon,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Charlotte  in 
her  very  deep  voice,  and  pressing  a  cold  salute  on  Rosa- 
mund's cheek.  "To  what,  pray,  do  I  owe  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you?" 

"I  have  come  with  a  message  from  Aunt  Margot. " 

"Pray  sit  down,"  said  Lady  Charlotte,  waving  her 
hand  towards  the  nearest  chair.  Then  she  rang  the  bell, 
and  a  dead  silence  ensued  until  it  was  answered. 

"Pray  tell  Sir  Alexander  that  his  niece,  Miss  Rosa- 
mund Keith,  is  here, ' '  she  said  to  the  servant,  then  turning 
to  Rosamund,  she  added:  "Any  message  that  you  bring 
from  Margot  I  should  like  Sir  Alexander  to  hear.  You 
know  I  make  a  point  of  taking  his  opinion  on  all  ques- 
tions in  life." 

Again  there  was  a  dead  silence,  and  Rosamund  shiv- 
ered a  little  in  her  thin  summer  gown,  not  so  much  with 
cold  as  with  the  sense  of  dulness  and  dreariness,  the 
stiffness  and  artificiality  of  the  whole  house  and  the  peo- 
ple in  it.  She  glanced  at  Lady  Charlotte,  sitting  upright 
in  her  prune-coloured  silk  gown  with  a  little  white  frill 
at  the  throat  and  the  wrists,  and  a  long  gold  chain  looped 
up  with  a  cameo  brooch  on  her  ample  bosom.  She 
looked,  as  with  fresh  eyes,  at  the  hard  lines  on  the  snuff- 
brown  wig  planted  above  Aunt  Charlotte's  aquiline  fea- 
tures, and  from  that  her  eyes  involuntarily  fell  to  the 
shiny  toe-cap  of  a  very  large  shoe  which  showed  from 
beneath  Aunt  Charlotte's  plain  and  full  skirts. 

She  always  felt  curious  about  Aunt  Charlotte.  She 
had  got  used  to  the  insincerities,  the  narrow-mindedness 
and  uncharitableness  of  her  Aunt  Margot,  but  Lady 


50  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Charlotte  Lundy  always  baffled  the  girl.  She  never  quite 
knew  how  much  she  was  in  earnest.  She  often  won- 
dered if  she  really  was  alive  at  all;  if  she  had  any  heart 
beating  under  her  well  whale-boned  bodice,  and  if  she 
had  such  a  thing,  whose  was  the  hand,  and  where  was  the 
voice  that  could  touch  it.  Not  Sir  Alexander's  certainly, 
for  even  as  she  went  over  the  old  ground  again  the  little 
piping  old  gentleman,  with  his  stick  and  his  skull  cap, 
came  doddering  into  the  room,  and  Lady  Charlotte 
waved  him  into  another  chair  just  as  she  had  waved 
Rosamund. 

"Sir  Alexander,  our  niece  Kerquham  has  sent  Rosa- 
mund to  see  us  this  afternoon.  She  tells  me  she  has 
brought  a  message;  I  should  like  you  to  hear  it." 

The  old  paralysing  nervousness  that  Rosamund  knew 
so  well  crept  over  her  and  almost  froze  the  tongue  in  her 
mouth. 

"It  is  nothing  very  important,"  she  began,  with  a 
nervous  laugh.  "It  is  about  a  message — a  letter  she 
had  from  great-aunt  Sophia." 

"Everything  to  do  with  your  great-aunt  Sophia  must 
be  of  importance,"  corrected  Lady  Charlotte,  severely. 
"Sir  Alexander,  I  hope  you  are  listening.  Now,  child, 
what  is  it?" 

"Aunt  Sophia  has  written  to  Aunt  Margot. " 

"You  gave  us  to  understand  that  before,"  said  Lady 
Charlotte.  "It  is  a  bad  habit  with  young  people  of  the 
present  day  to  repeat  themselves.  Sir  Alexander  always 
says  that  young  persons  nowadays  have  no  idea  how  to 
express  their  thought." 

Sir  Alexander  had  never  said  anything  of  the  sort; 
he  had  probably  never  thought  it,  for,  poor  little  old 
gentleman,  he  had  left  the  greater  part  of  his  wits  and 
all  his  will  behind  him  in  the  Crimea,  but  it  was  Lady 


PRUNES  AND  PRISMS  51 

Charlotte's  idea  of  keeping  up  a  proper  discipline  to 
quote  her  lord  and  master  when  he  could  not  speak  for 
himself. 

"Tell  me  as  clearly  and  as  slowly  and  as  plainly  as 
you  can,  if  you  please,"  went  on  her  ladyship,  "what 
was  the  purport  of  the  communication  from  your  great- 
aunt  Sophia  to  your  Aunt  Margot. " 

Rosamund  really  had  to  think  quite  hard  for  a  mo- 
ment; her  whole  brain  was  wandering  under  the  influence 
of  that  drawing-room,  and  she  could  only  wonder  how 
long  Sir  Alexander's  skull  cap  would  stop  on  his  head  if 
he  kept  on  shaking  it  about  so  much. 

"Great-aunt  Sophia,"  she  began  very  slowly,  and 
trying  to  weigh  every  word  before  she  spoke  it,  "has 
written  to  say  that  she  is  thinking  of  coming  to  London 
in  a  few  days." 

"Sakes  alive!"  cried  Lady  Charlotte,  momentarily 
shaken  out  of  her  usual  stately  repose.  "Sir  Alexander, 
did  you  ever  hear  such  a  thing?  My  dear  sister  Sophia 
talks  of  coming  to  London." 

Sir  Alexander  waggled  his  head  a  little  more,  but 
expressed  no  opinion  on  the  news  either  one  way  or  the 
other. 

"She  suggested,  I  believe,"  continued  Rosamund 
carefully,  "for  I  have  not  seen  the  letter,  that  she  should 
come  and  stay  at  Campden  Hill." 

At  this  moment  Lady  Charlotte  assumed  such  a  dis- 
pleased air  that  Rosamund  stopped  dead  short  and  won- 
dered how  on  earth  she  was  going  to  advance  Mrs. 
Kerquham's  request  that  Lady  Sophia  should  go  to 
Wimpole  Street. 

"To  Campden  Hill!"  cried  Lady  Charlotte.  "Sir 
Alexander,  do  you  hear  that?  My  dear  sister  can  have 
no  idea  of  what  life  at  Campden  Hill  can  be."  She 


52  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

turned  to  Rosamund.  "I  am  sure,  Rosamund,  that  Sir 
Alexander  feels  with  me  that  such  a  proposal  is  abso- 
lutely out  of  the  question.  My  poor  dear  sister  would 
be  distracted  in  the  midst  of  such  disorder,  such  noise, 
such  goings  and  comings  as  are  the  rule  of  life  at  'The 
Hurst.'  She  has  been  accustomed  to  punctuality  and 
reasonable  hours,  to  quietude  and  the  correct  order  of  a 
perfect  gentlewoman's  life.  Everything,  in  fact,  that 
she  will  not  find  at  my  niece  Margot's  house.  Sir 
Alexander  has  frequently  expressed  his  astonishment  at 
the  manner  in  which  both  your  uncle  and  aunt  have  been 
pleased  to  bring  you  all  up.  He  has  even  spoken  in 
terms  of  the  strongest  disapproval  of  the  people  who 
visit  your  aunt,  and  of  the  friends  she  has  seen  fit  to 
make  since  she  cast  in  her  lot  with  your  Uncle  Alban. 
He,  unfortunate  man,  has  been  led  away  by  his  absurd 
craze  for  what  he  is  pleased  to  term  'art.'  He  forgot 
his  duty  to  his  family  thirty-five  years  ago,  and  both  Sir 
Alexander  and  I  are  sorry  to  find  how  his  influence  has 
perverted  and  changed  Margot.  We  both  noticed  this 
with  regret  while  you  and  your  cousins  were  still  in  the 
schoolroom.  Your  introduction  into  society  made  but 
little  difference.  Sir  Alexander  has  always  considered 
you,  my  dear,  a  well-conducted  and  respectable  young 
person,  but  since  Margot  has  brought  out  her  own  girls, 
she  and  her  whole  establishment  have  greatly  changed. 
Of  Laura  I  cannot  trust  myself  to  speak." 

She  gave  a  righteous  shudder  and  closed  her  eyes  for 
a  moment  as  though  to  shut  out  some  horrid  sight.  "I 
can  only  pray  that  she  will  find  her  just  reward  in  the 
reproaches  of  her  own  conscience.  Honor  is  evil- 
tongued,  if  better  behaved  than  her  sister,  but  neither 
Sir  Alexander  nor  I  can  approve  of  those  two  young 
women,  nor  regard  them  with  any  other  feelings  than 


PRUNES  AND  PRISMS  53 

those  of  displeasure.  We  both  consider  that  our  niece, 
Margot  Kerquham,  has  been  a  fool  in  the  bringing  up  of 
her  daughters.  Sir  Alexander,  I  am  sure,  will  wish  my 
dear  sister  Sophia  to  pass  her  time  in  London  under  our 
roof,  which  we  trust  will  be  more  congenial  to  her  mind 
and  spirit  than  'The  Hurst'  could  ever  hope  to  be." 

Lady  Charlotte  folded  her  hands  over  her  prune  silk 
lap.  Sir  Alexander  waggled  his  head  over  his  stick  a 
little,  and  Rosamund  shook  herself  free  from  the  torrent 
of  words  to  find  that  her  task  had  been  done  for  her; 
that  she  had  no  request  to  make,  no  favour  to  ask, 
and  that  she  was  free  to  get  up  and  go  home. 

"Then  what  am  I  to  tell  Aunt  Margot?"  she  asked, 
advancing  to  the  edge  of  Lady  Charlotte's  domain. 

"Tell  her  that  Sir  Alexander  and  I  wish  my  dear  sis- 
ter to  come  to  us.  I  will  write  to  her  by  this  afternoon's 
post.  Will  you  also  tell  her  from  me  that  I  hear  Laura 
wore  a  most  decollette  gown  the  other  night  at  Mrs. 
Benyon's.  That  girl  is  bound  to  end  very  baxlly 
indeed." 

She  took  Rosamund's  cool,  slim  hand  in  hers  and 
shook  it. 

"You  are  a  very  good  girl,  my  dear,  to  do  this  mes- 
sage for  your  aunt,"  she  said  patronisingly.  "She 
ought  sometimes  to  wish  that  her  daughters  were  like 
you." 

Again  she  leant  forward  to  deposit  an  icy  salute  on 
Rosamund's  cheek,  when  a  little  door  at  the  further  end 
of  the  back  drawing-room  was  opened,  and  a  young  man 
entered  the  room.  He  was  obviously  short-sighted,  for 
a  pair  of  pince-nez  dangled  over  his  waistcoat.  He  was 
small  like  Sir  Alexander  Lundy,  but  had  the  pale,  sandy- 
coloured  hair  and  light  eyes  that  characterised  all  Lady 
Charlotte's  family.  He  was  her  only  son. 


54  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KETTH 

He  advanced  slowly  as  far  as  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  then  seeing  that  a  third  person  was  present,  stopped 
short  awkwardly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon;  I  did  not  know  you  were 
engaged." 

"Come  in,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Lady  Charlotte, 
blandly.  "It  is  only  Rosamund.  She  has  brought  a 
message  from  Margot  about  your  Aunt  Sophia." 

Mr.  Hamish  Lundy  grew  pink  all  over  his  face.  It 
was  a  trick  he  had  whenever  he  saw  Rosamund.  He 
put  on  his  glasses,  and  after  a  minute's  vague  staring, 
fixed  his  gaze  upon  her. 

"How  do  you  do,  Rosamund?  Hot  to-day,  isn't  it? 
Hope  you  are  quite  well." 

Rosamund  was  taller  than  he  and  looked  down  at  his 
nervous,  shuffling  figure,  as  she  assented  to  his  remarks. 
Lady  Charlotte  meanwhile  had  also  risen,  and  was  blandly 
regarding  the  pair. 

"Very  nice,  very  nice,"  she  murmured  softly  to  her- 
self. It  was  the  one  ambition  of  her  life  that  Hamish 
should  marry  Rosamund.  True  that  the  girl  had  no 
money,  and  never  would  have,  but  her  family  was  all 
right,  for  was  she  not  an  offshoot  of  the  family,  and  then 
she  was  so  ladylike,  so  quiet  and  so  amenable.  When 
she  remembered  what  most  girls  of  the  period  were  like, 
Lady  Charlotte  had  an  inward  conviction  that  Rosamund 
would  prove  easier  to  manage  than  any  other  young 
woman  of  her  acquaintance. 

"Hamish,  my  son,"  she  said,  "our  dear  Rosamund 
has  come  to  announce  the  speedy  arrival  of  Aunt  Sophia 
in  London.  She  will  stop  here  during  her  stay,  of 
course,  and  I  hope — no — I  expect,"  with  a  stately  bend 
of  the  head,  "that  dear  Rosamund  will  not  omit  the 
opportunity  of  frequently  coming  to  see  my  sister." 


PRUNES  AND  Pff/SMS  55 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  half-past  four. 
Lady  Charlotte  turned  to  her  husband: 

"Sir  Alexander,  you  will  be  reminding  me  in  a 
moment  that  the  carriage  is  here;  I  must  go  and  get  my 
bonnet." 

She  looked  doubtfully  for  a  moment  from  Rosamund 
to  her  son  and  her  husband,  then  with  a  great  effort  she 
said: 

"Rosamund,  I  will  drive  you  back  to  'The  Hurst.' 
I  shall  have  just  time  to  do  so  before  going  to  Lady 
Betty  MacCan's  to  tea.  Come  with  me,  Sir  Alexan- 
der." 

With  a  benign  smile  at  her  own  cleverness  in  leaving 
the  two  young  people  alone,  Lady  Charlotte  tucked  Sir 
Alexander  under  her  arm  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 
Rosamund  sank  back  into  her  chair  again.  Mr.  Hamish 
Lundy  took  one  at  a  little  distance,  and  with  his  glasses 
on  his  nose  proceeded  to  stare  at  her. 

"How  nice  you  look  to-day,  Rosamund — so  cool,  just 
as  if  it  were  not  hot  at  all.  I  suppose  it  is  that  frock 
you  have  got  on;  it  is  awfully  nice." 

"Is  it?"  said  Rosamund.  "It  is  only  a  cotton;  I  do 
not  think  one  could  wear  anything  else  this  kind  of 
weather." 

Mr.  Hamish  Lundy  smoothed  his  sandy  hair  on  his 
head  with  both  hands. 

"I  thought  you  looked  very  nice,  too,  at  Mrs. 
Toroni's  last  night,"  he  said,  tentatively,  and  looking  at 
her  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes,  "and  you  were  not  in 
a  cotton  frock  then,  you  know." 

"Of  course  I  was  not,  Hamish.  People  do  not  go  to 
evening  parties  in  cottons." 

"I  say,  Rosamund,"  said  Hamish,  in  a  low  voice,  and 
looking  over  his  shoulder  to  see  that  the  big  doors 


56          THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

behind  him  were  tightly  shut,  "you  have  not  told  my 
mother,  have  you,  about  seeing  me  last  night  at  Mrs. 
Toroni's?  Do  be  a  good  girl,  and  promise  you  won't." 

"There  is  no  question  of  a  promise  about  it,  Hamish. 
First  of  all,  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  gossiping  about 
whom  I  meet  or  whom  I  do  not  meet  at  parties;  and 
secondly,  if  you  make  a  point  of  it,  though  I  do  not 
know  why  you  should,  of  course  I  will  not  mention  to 
your  mother  that  I  met  you  last  night." 

Hamish  looked  as  ashamed  of  himself  as  anybody 
belonging  to  Lady  Charlotte  Lundy  could  do. 

"You  see,  Rosamund,"  he  began,  "my  mother  has 
rather  extraordinary  ideas  about  Sundays.  Of  course  I 
think  she  is  quite  right  up  to  a  certain  point,  you  know. 
There  is  no  doubt  there  is  a  dreadful  amount  of  Sabbath- 
breaking  nowadays,"  and  he  looked  as  sanctimonious  as 
he  could.  "I  think  that  the  way  people  neglect  their 
church  and  go  on  the  river  and  play  tennis  and  golf  and 
things  is  nothing  short  of  disgraceful ;  but  when  Mrs. 
Toroni  asked  me  to  go  to  her  house  last  night  I  did  not 
see  very  much  why  I  should  not  go." 

"Why,  of  course  not,"  said  Rosamund,  frankly. 
"There  is  nothing  in  it.  I  did  not  care  about  the  party 
very  much,  but  I  do  not  suppose  it  would  have  been  any 
more  pleasant  on  a  Monday  than  on  a  Sunday." 

"Er — umph — you  see  it  is  not  exactly  that.  My 
mother  would  not  mind  where  I  went  on  Monday,  or  any 
other  day  in  the  week,  but  she  does  draw  the  line  at 
Sunday  going-out." 

"Then  why  did  you  go?"  asked  Rosamund,  raising  her 
eyes  and  looking  him  full  in  the  face. 

He  grew  pink  all  over  and  smoothed  his  hair  again. 

"Well,  you  see — "  Rosamund  saw  that  he  was 
searching  for  an  excuse,  and  some  little  imp  of  mischief 


PRUNES  AND  PRISMS  57 

whispered  to  her  to  help  him  out  of  the  difficulty  at  his 
own  expense. 

"You  came  to  see  me,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  laughing. 

"That  was  it;  that's  exactly  the  whole  truth  of  it!" 
he  cried  with  a  relieved  air. 

"But,"  said  Rosamund,  with  arched  eyebrows,  "how 
did  you  manage  to  get  out?  I  do  not  fancy  that  even  my 
presence  would  justify  you  in  doing  an  action  which  she 
could  not  approve." 

He  looked  awkward  again  at  once. 

"No;  you  see  I  made  an  excuse  to  my  mother." 

"Hamish, "  said  Rosamund,  with  a  little  smile  twitch- 
ing on  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  "may  I  inquire  what 
you  call  an  excuse?" 

The  unfortunate  young  man,  goaded  to  desperation 
between  his  tantalisingly  pretty  cousin  and  the  awful 
image  of  his  severe  mother,  was  on  the  point  of  com- 
mitting himself  to  some  quite  serious  statement  when 
Lady  Charlotte's  voice  was  heard  outside. 

"William,  take  my  parasol,  and  then  help  Sir  Alex- 
ander into  the  carriage." 

Then  the  double  doors  were  flung  wide.  "Rosamund, 
my  dear,  I  am  quite  ready.  I  hope  you  and  Hamish 
have  had  a  nice  cousinly  little  chat." 

Rosamund  flashed  an  amused  little  smile  into  Hamish's 
sheepish  face,  as  she  shook  his  limp  hand. 

"We  have  got  along  splendidly,  aunt,  thank  you. 
Hamish  and  I  understand  one  another  so  well,  you  know. 
Good  afternoon,  cousin,"  and  then  with  a  demure  face 
and  a  light  step  she  followed  her  stately  great-aunt  down 
the  gloomy  staircase  to  the  carriage. 


CHAPTER   V 

A  YOUNG   MAN'S  FANCY 

IT  was  late  afternoon.  Paul  had  been  busy  all  the 
morning,  for  although  he  was  a  rich  man,  he  was  not  of 
the  temperament  of  which  drones  are  made.  His  morn- 
ing had  been  passed  in  reviewing  reports  from  the  factor 
of  his  little  place  in  Scotland,  in  studying  the  estimates 
for  the  repairing  and  fitting  out  of  his  yacht  at  South- 
ampton for  a  summer  cruise,  and  in  the  thousand  and 
one  small  affairs  of  social  and  business  life  which  come 
to  every  man  who  chooses  to  receive  them. 

Now  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day  were  over. 
Below  the  open  windows  of  his  rooms  in  Piccadilly  swept 
the  ceaseless  tide  of  traffic  towards  the  Park ;  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  evening,  which  would  live  through  the  night 
hours  until  the  next  day's  dawn,  had  begun  for  his  world, 
and  as  the  weary-eyed  clerks  and  city  toilers  went 
their  way  to  the  suburbs  on  the  tops  of  omnibuses,  look- 
ing forward  with  what  anticipation  they  might  to  a  few 
hours  rest  before  their  humble  supper  and  bedtime  came, 
the  set  that  Paul  lived  in  waked  from  its  day's  sleep  and 
prepared  to  begin  the  life  it  loved  best. 

Twice  his  valet  had  been  in  to  ask  if  he  would  dress 
for  the  Park,  and  twice  Paul  had  said  he  did  not  know, 
and  bade  him  come  again  in  half  an  hour.  He  lit  a 
cigarette  and  wandered  over  to  the  window.  The  flowers 
in  the  blue  boxes  bloomed  in  fine  profusion;  white 
daisies  and  scarlet  geraniums  made  a  goodly  show  all 

58 


A    TOUNG  MAN'S  FANCT  59 

along  the  line  of  his  flat,  while  the  scent  of  sweet  mignon- 
ette floated  into  his  rooms  and  even  up  as  far  as  the 
next  story. 

He  looked  down  at  the  crowded  roadway  and  the 
thronged  pavements.  Every  turn  of  the  wheels  of 
the  smart  carriages  below  brought  some  friend  or 
acquaintance  within  range  of  his  vision,  but  as  they  did 
not  look  up  so  high  as  his  windows  he  was  saved  the 
trouble  of  bowing  to  them.  He  could  not  see  the  pave- 
ment directly  beneath,  but  he  knew  by  the  noise  of  the 
passing  feet  that  it  was  thronged  with  men  lounging  to 
and  from  their  clubs,  and  with  pretty  girls  hastening 
to  the  Park  to  see  and  be  seen.  On  the  opposite  side  of 
the  road,  under  the  trees  of  the  Green  Park,  was  a  dif- 
ferent crowd  altogether.  Many  of  them  were  loafers, 
gossiping,  swearing,  and  spitting  as  they  leant  up  against 
the  railings.  There  were  a  few  nurse-maids  and  chil- 
dren and  many  business  people  and  workmen.  He 
thought  how  strange  it  was  that  such  a  narrow  roadway 
should  divide  two  such  different  streams  of  life  as  flowed 
that  afternoon  down  the  north  and  south  sides  of  Picca- 
dilly. 

Should  he  go  out,  or  should  he  not  go  out?  His  valet 
knocked  for  the  third  time  at  the  door,  and  Paul  from 
force  of  habit  turned  and  was  walking  to  his  dressing- 
room,  when  by  chance  his  eye  fell  on  the  largest  and 
most  comfortable  of  his  great  padded  arm-chairs. 

"No,  I  will  not  change  till  dinner  time,"  he  said,  and 
the  man  left  the  room. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  at  having  made  up  his  mind, 
Paul  flung  himself  into  the  big  chair,  and  for  almost  the 
first  time  that  day  gave  himself  up  to  thoughts  that 
made  for  sweetness  and  happiness  and  all  the  domestic 
virtues.  His  business  was  finished,  his  papers  put  aside; 


60  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

no  one  was  likely  to  intrude  upon  him,  and  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  the  richly  reposeful  colouring  and  beautiful 
things  that  a  man  of  wealth  and  taste  is  able  to  gather 
round  him.  He  was  now  going  to  think  of  Rosamund 
Keith.  He  flung  away  the  end  of  his  cigarette  as  her 
name,  which  signified  so  much  sweetness  and  glorified 
her  as  the  rose  of  the  world,  passed  through  his  mind 
and  broke  from  his  lips.  He  laid  back  his  head  and 
smiled  as  his  fancy  conjured  her  image  to  his  side. 

Paul  Carr  was  essentially  a  product  of  modern  soci- 
ety, though  scarcely  perhaps  so  much  by  natural  incli- 
nation as  by  force  of  circumstances.  He  had  been  born 
into  it.  His  father  and  mother,  at  their  marriage, 
had  been  the  handsomest  couple  of  their  day;  both  had 
money,  both  had  perfect  physique  and  beauty,  both  were 
worldly  to  the  tips  of  their  well-shaped  fingers.  Paul 
had  been  their  only  child,  and  from  the  moment  of  his 
arrival  in  the  world  had  been  looked  upon  as  a  necessary 
evil;  an  item  that  was  quite  proper  to  be  numbered  in 
the  Carr  family,  but  nevertheless  one  that,  with  childish 
ailments,  the  necessities  for  education  and  social  plac- 
ing, was  to  be  regarded  as  a  nuisance  in  the  absolutely 
happy-go-lucky,  thoughtless,  selfish  life  of  his  popular 
father  and  mother. 

Paul  could  never  remember  the  time  that  he  had  not 
lived  among  perfumed  laces  and  silken  skirts,  listening  to 
the  tittle-tattle  of  a  fashionable  drawing-room,  which  was 
varied  only  by  the  whispered  stories  and  coarse  innuen- 
does of  maids  and  valets.  He  always  seemed,  even  from 
his  babyhood,  to  have  seen  through  the  sham  of  it  all. 
He  had  never  heard  his  parents  quarrel  so  long  as  they 
lived,  but  he  had  always  intuitively  known  that  they 
cared  nothing  for  one  another  beyond  the  fact  that  each 
was  the  social  complement  of  the  other.  He  had  some- 


A    TOUNG  MAN'S  FANCT  61 

times  wondered,  even  when  quite  a  child,  why  his  father 
and  mother  played  at  everything.  It  was  always  like 
being  in  a  theater  to  sit  with  them,  and  as  he  grew  a  little 
older  his  instinct  taught  him  that  his  father  and  mother's 
friends  were  no  less  puppets  than  they  were  themselves. 

If  his  health  had  not  been  as  perfect  as  it  was  possible 
for  it  to  be,  he  would  have  become  a  very  morbid  boy, 
but  Eton  and  Oxford  developed  every  instinct  of  man- 
hood that  was  in  him,  and  while  they  never  blinded  him 
to  the  falseness  of  the  social  world  in  which  fortune  had 
set  him,  they  enabled  him  as  time  went  on  to  take  a 
more  lenient  view  of  the  foibles  that  marked  his  sur- 
roundings. 

He  was  scarcely  one  and  twenty  when  his  father  died. 
His  was  just  such  a  taking-off  as  the  handsome,  hard- 
living  man  might  have  wished;  a  glorious  day  with 
hounds,  a  splendid  run,  a  perfect  horse  under  him,  a 
trip,  a  roll  over,  and  a  broken  neck.  It  was  after  that 
that  Paul's  mother  astonished  him  for  the  first  and  the 
last  time.  She  had  never  shown  any  affection  for  her 
husband,  and  at  first  she  had  missed  him  a  little  more 
perhaps  than  she  would  have  missed  a  very  good  maid  or 
a  favourite  lap-dog.  But  the  very  suddenness  of  his 
death  seemed  to  take  hold  of  her,  and  though  she  did 
not  exactly  pine  after  her  lost  lord's  memory,  her  health 
failed  her,  and  a  slight  chill  undermined  her  weakened 
constitution.  Paul  travelled  with  her  to  the  Riviera,  but 
he  came  back  to  London  alone,  and  found  himself,  while 
little  more  than  a  boy,  master  of  a  fine  income,  two 
country  estates,  and  a  house  in  town;  amply  provided 
for  with  everything  that  the  heart  of  man  could  desire, 
always  excepting  illusions. 

One  thing  other  he  possessed  in  common  with  very 
many  young  men  of  his  class.  There  was  a  turned-down 


62  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

page  in  his  life-book.  It  had  been  very  black,  but  in  his 
own  eyes  the  law  had  whitened  it.  Still,  it  was  one  he 
rigourously  avoided  re-reading,  and  now  the  details  had 
grown  faint  in  his  memory,  and  it  was  a  story  that  nobody 
had  ever  known. 

So  it  was  without  illusions  that  he  had  lived  until  he 
was  eight  and  twenty — until  he  met  Rosamund  Keith. 
The  first  time  he  saw  her  he  admired  her  for  her  physical 
beauty,  and  set  her  down  as  being  no  different  from  the 
other  girls  of  her  station.  Then  chance  brought  them 
together,  and  he  talked  with  her.  The  first  five  minutes 
sufficed  to  show  him  that  she  was  not  clever  or  sharp; 
that  she  did  not  say  specially  witty  things;  that  she 
aspired  to  the  display  of  no  particular  branch  of  knowl- 
edge; that  she  had  practically  no  affectations.  But 
another  five  minutes  revealed  in  her  something  that  he 
had  found  wanting  in  all  the  other  women  he  had  met 
during  his  lifetime;  she  possessed  an  innate  purity,  an 
almost  childlike  innocence  that  still  was  not  the  affected 
ignorance  of  the  society  hack.  She  was  not  loud  in 
speech  or  free  in  manner;  she  was  able  to  talk  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  and  express  herself  intelligibly  with- 
out the  aid  of  slang  or  quotations  from  music-hall  songs. 
She  had  never  cheapened  herself  or  played  with  her  sen- 
sations by  falling  in  love  with  actors  or  running  after 
society  lions.  He  fathomed  that,  despite  her  warm  col- 
ouring and  misty  dark  eyes,  she  was  cold  of  temperament, 
was  not  to  be  approached  by  the  usual  pretty  compli- 
ments and  coarse  attentions  that  catch  the  fancy  of  the 
average  girl,  and  that  her  life  was  not  entirely  bound  up 
in  a  round  of  race-meetings  and  dances,  skating  parties 
and  bicycling  gymkhanas. 

He  could  not  discover,  either  from  her  manner  or 
from  her  speech,  that  she  had  had  love  affairs,  or  had 


A    TOUNG  MAWS  FANCT  63 

carried  on  clandestine  correspondence  with  married 
men.  Her  greatest  friends  were  the  men  whose  youth 
had  left  them  sixty  years  ago,  and  who  came  and  spent 
quiet — sometimes  silent — evenings  in  her  uncle's  studio. 
She  would  fill  their  pipes  for  them,  and  listen  to  such 
scraps  of  conversation  as  these  veterans  in  life's  battle 
chose  to  let  drop  in  their  less  contemplative  moments. 
Paul  was  fastidious  enough  to  notice  that  she  dressed 
well ;  that  she  was  always  perfectly  groomed,  and  that 
without  vanity  she  was  careful  to  preserve  all  the  good 
points  with  which  nature  had  endowed  her;  but  he  also 
soon  saw  that  she  was  not  by  way  of  changing  the  colour 
of  her  hair  with  every  season  that  passed;  of  unduly 
curtailing  her  bodices  or  showing  her  pretty  feet.  That 
she  was,  in  fact,  that  rara  avis  in  the  world,  as  he  knew 
it,  a  really  ladylike  girl. 

For  some  months  he  had  considered  her  as  nothing 
more  than  that,  until  it  had  gradually  dawned  upon  him 
that  she  was  a  pearl  laid  before  swine,  and  that  the 
circumstances  governing  her  daily  life  were  uncongenial 
to  her.  He  quickly  saw  through  the  shallowness  of  Mrs. 
Kerquham's  religion  and  strictness.  He  knew  that  she 
would  strain  at  a  gnat  and  swallow  a  camel.  She  would 
not  go  herself  to  certain  houses  and  certain  places,  but 
she  allowed  her  daughters  to  over-persuade  her,  and  per- 
mitted them  to  be  seen  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  under 
the  chaperonage  of  the  first  lively  young  married  woman 
whose  services  they  were  able  to  command.  It  scarcely 
needed  his  worldly  knowledge  to  fathom  the  shallows  of 
Laura's  nature,  or  to  guess  that  in  her  domestic  life 
Honor's  bad  temper  and  sharp  tongue  must  frequently 
be  called  into  play  for  the  benefit  of  her  poorer  cousin. 
When  he  had  first  realised  this  he  got  an  odd  fancy  into 
his  head  that  Rosamund  was  his  mission  in  life.  He  had 


64  THE  PASSION   OF  ROSAMUND   KEITH 

always  been  looking  for  a  mission,  but  his  upbringing 
had  been  against  his  taking  anything  really  seriously. 
Yet  lately  he  had  felt  that  to  remove  this  girl  from  the 
uncongeniality  of  her  surroundings  and  set  her  feet  in 
the  higher,  nobler  walks  of  life  would  be  a  fine  thing  to 
do — and  then — then  almost  unconsciously,  he  had  fallen 
in  love  with  her. 

He  was  still  not  quite  sure  how  far  that  love  would 
carry  him,  for  he  had  always  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
would  never  link  his  life  irrevocably  with  that  of  a  woman. 
But  as  that  afternoon  the  thoughts  of  Rosamund  and 
love  intermingled  into  one  definite  purpose,  a  smile  of 
grave  happiness  touched  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and 
so  far  from  checking  the  longing  for  her  sweet  presence 
that  surged  from  heart  to  brain,  he  felt  that  to  take  her 
hand  in  his  and  draw  her  to  his  side  would  be  the  doing 
of  a  good  thing;  a  thing  that  would  make  him  happy, 
and  that  would  keep  her  unspotted  from  the  world.  He 
felt  that  his  mission  in  life  would  be  complete,  and  that 
he  was  born  for  domesticity.  Not  as  his  parents  had 
known  it,  but  as  he  and  Rosamund  would  make  it  for 
themselves.  He  would  tell  her  of  his  love,  and  they 
would  be  married  and  go  away,  and  wander  through  all 
the  beautiful  countries  of  the  world,  seeing  God's  handi- 
work only,  and  putting  behind  them  the  falseness  and 
sham,  the  lies  and  disappointments  which  man  deals  out 
to  man.  He  acknowledged  to  himself  as  he  sat  there 
dreaming  that  he  must  have  loved  Rosamund  for  quite  a 
long  time,  although  he  had  only  lately  known  it. 

"I  have  been  shamming  to  myself,"  he  thought.  "I 
have  been  playing  at  taking  an  interest  in  her  when  I  was 
in  love  with  her;  I  wonder  if  her  people  will  object? 
Mrs.  Kerquham  has  wanted  Lord  St.  Ives  for  her.  He 
would  have  been  in  her  eyes  a  brilliant  match  for  Rosa- 


A    TOUNG  MAN'S  FANCT  65 

mund,  for  he  is  a  man  who  only  lives  for  the  world  and 
for  society.  With  Rosamund  as  his  wife,  Laura  and 
Honor  might  make  sure  of  getting  husbands.  But  once 
Rosamund  and  I  are  married,  we  should  just  go  away  and 
live  our  own  lives,  which,  according  to  Mrs.  Kerquham, 
would  mean  that  we  should  be  of  no  use  to  her  daugh- 
ters. I  wonder  how  soon  I  dare  speak  to  Rosamund." 

And  so  in  dreams  of  the  future  and  plans  for  the 
present  Paul  Carr  idled  away  the  next  hour.  Then 
the  late  afternoon  post  came,  and  with  it  the  usual  batch 
of  cards  and  letters,  and  little  notes  asking  for  appoint- 
ments, and  pressing  invitations  to  quiet  dinners  in  out- 
of-the-way  places,  that  beset  the  path  of  the  eligible 
bachelor  as  thickly  as  thorns  in  a  hedge.  He  divided 
them  into  two  packets. 

"Those  I  shall  decline,"  he  said  aloud,  "for  she 
does  not  go  to  those  houses.  These  I  shall  accept, 
because  we  shall  meet." 

The  last  letter  he  opened  was  from  Mrs.  Toroni;  she 
was  full  of  some  "Living  Pictures"  she  was  organising 
in  aid  of  a  charity,  and  wanted  him  to  help  her. 

"The  dear  Princess,"  she  wrote,  "sent  for  me  yester- 
day, and  says  the  'Home'  is  in  a  terribly  destitute  condi- 
tion; she  must  have  money  for  it  at  once,  and  she  will 
patronise  any  form  of  entertainment  I  choose  to  get  up. 
Isn't  it  charming  of  her?  I  want  you  so  much  to  pose  in 
some  of  the  pictures.  All  our  set  have  promised  their 
help,  and  Miss  Laura  Kerquham,  who  is  so  clever,  has 
got  some  quite  splendid  ideas-.  I  had  hoped  Miss  Rosa- 
mund Keith  would  have  been  of  some  use  in  a  classical 
picture  or  two,  but  she  has  refused.  What  a  very  dull 
girl  she  is!  Her  aunt,  however,  has  promised  that  she 
shall  sing  some  songs  between  the  pictures.  I  do  hate 
a  girl  who  requires  such  a  lot  of  pressing  and  arranging 


66  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

for;  don't  you?  Pray  come  to  dinner  to-night;  I  am 
not  going  out  until  eleven  o'clock,  and  we  can  talk  over 
and  decide  what  pictures  we  will  have.  I  am  hunting 
my  visiting  list  for  all  the  pretty  women  I  know.  If  we 
only  get  them  nice-looking  enough,  who  knows  but  that 
the  Prince  himself  may  come!" 

Paul  laid  down  the  letter  with  a  little  laugh  and  a 
little  sigh. 

"Poor  Rosamund!  she  is  dull  and  dowdy  because  she 
won't  stand  half-naked  before  a  room  full  of  gaping 
snobs,  who  pay  their  guineas  to  say  that  they  have  been 
present  at  the  same  entertainment  as  a  royal  Princess. 
Well,  I  shall  not  try  to  alter  her  determination,  but  she 
must  sing.  Her  singing  is  the  loveliest  thing  in  the 
world." 

He  hummed  a  little  favourite  air  of  hers  as  he  rose 
and  rang  the  bell.  Then  he  scribbled  a  telegram  and 
handed  it  to  his  man. 

"Send  that  off  at  once;  I  will  dress  now." 

He  read  Mrs.  Toroni's  letter  again,  and  then  tore 
it  up. 

"No,  my  dear  lady,"  he  thought,  "I  shall  not  dine 
with  you  to-night.  Am  I  not  going  to  the  opera  to  hear 
'Siegfried'  and  chance  meeting  my  lady  love?" 


CHAPTER   VI 

MAN    PROPOSES 

THE  servants  at  "The  Hurst"  were  lighting  up  the  fine 
suite  of  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  and  giving  the  last 
touches  to  the  draperies  and  palms  which  had  transformed 
Mrs.  Kerquham's  luxurious  rooms  into  positive  fairyland. 
With  much  coaxing  and  trouble  Laura  and  Honor  had 
induced  their  mother  to  give  a  dance.  On  the  first  floor, 
where  a  long  corridor  ran  from  end  to  end  of  the  large 
house,  all  was  hurry  and  confusion;  the  Kerquham  girls 
perpetually  ringing  and  calling  for  their  maid ;  Rosamund 
being  summoned  every  five  minutes  to  pronounce  on  the 
success  of  a  coiffure  or  the  disposition  of  a  flower  or 
feather;  bouquets  arriving  for  the  young  ladies,  and  all 
the  excitement  which  precedes  a  dance  in  a  house. 

At  a  quarter  to  ten  Mr.  Kerquham  knocked  at  his 
wife's  dressing-room  door. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  and  then  catching  sight  of  her 
husband's  face  in  the  looking-glass  as  he  advanced 
towards  her,  she  turned  to  her  maid,  "Parkins,  you  had 
better  see  if  there  is  anything  you  can  do  for  the  young 
ladies  before  you  go  downstairs  to  the  cloak-room.  I 
can  do  without  you  now." 

As  the  maid  closed  the  door  behind  her,  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham rose  from  her  chair  and  faced  round  on  her  husband. 

44Why  are  you  not  dressed  yet,  Alban?  It  is  a  quar- 
ter to  ten,  and  you  know  that  some  of  these  people  are 
sure  to  be  punctual."  Perhaps  the  weary  look  on  his 

67 


68  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

face,  as  he  sank  into  a  low  chair  before  the  draped  fire- 
place, touched  her  heart  a  little,  for  she  added  in  more 
gentle  tones,  "Is  anything  the  matter?  Are  you  not  feel- 
ing well?" 

"Nothing  much  is  the  matter,  my  dear,"  he  replied 
in  his  usual  courteous  way,  "but  I  am  not  the  thing. 
I've  not  felt  really  well  ever  since  we  came  to  town  in 
the  spring,  and  any  excitement  seems  to  tire  me." 

He  settled  himself  as  though  the  question  of  dressing 
to  receive  his  guests  was  the  last  thing  in  the  world  that 
need  trouble  him,  and  Mrs.  Kerquham,  for  the  moment 
dominated  by  his  air,  sat  herself  on  the  end  of  the  sofa, 
and  did  not  even  proceed  with  the  putting  on  of  her 
gloves. 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  my  dear,"  began  Mr.  Ker- 
quham, breaking  the  silence,  "and  tell  you  that  really 
after  this  season  it  will  not  be  possible  for  me  to  live  this 
double  life  of  work  and  pleasure.  It  is,  as  you  know, 
my  earnest  desire  to  earn  money  for  you  and  for  the 
girls,  so  long  as  I  have  the  power  and  the  opportunity. 
I  want,  in  case  anything  should  happen  to  me,  to  leave 
you  above  all  question  of  monetary  difficulties.  I  should 
like  to  know  that  the  girls  were  not  pinched  for  so  much 
as  a  half-penny.  Then,  too,  there  is  Rosamund;  she  is 
to  me  like  a  third  daughter." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  pursed  her  lips  and  stiffened  her  back 
a  little  at  the  reference  to  her  niece,  but  she  was  too  wise 
to  interrupt  by  word  or  any  other  movement  her  hus- 
band's slow  utterances. 

"To  do  all  this,  my  dear,"  he  went  on,  "I  must 
work,  and  work  hard.  Do  not  think  I  am  complaining 
of  that.  I  love  my  art,  and  after  that  my  greatest  hap- 
piness lies  in  knowing  that  you  and  the  girls  have  all 
the  luxury  and  indulgence  that  money  can  buy." 


MAN  PROPOSES  69 

He  sighed  heavily,  and  leaned  forward  with  his 
elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  face  in  his  hands.  Mrs. 
Kerquham  noticed  for  the  first  time  how  he  had  changed 
since  the  winter.  "It  is  the  so-called  pleasure  that  tires 
me  so.  The  dinners  and  dances;  the  first  nights  at 
plays,  and  the  receptions  that  do  not  begin  till  after 
midnight  and  continue  until  the  sun  is  up — that  is  where 
my  weariness  comes  in.  and  that  is  what  I  feel  I  must 
give  up." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  began  slowly  to  draw  on  one  of  her 
long  gloves.  "Then  what  is  your  idea?"  she  said,  quietly. 

"Well,  I  have  been  thinking  it  over  in  the  studio  this 
evening  just  between  the  lights.  What  I  should  like  to 
do  would  be  to  let  this  house  and  go  down  to  Midshire. " 

"But  the  girls!"  burst  involuntarily  from  Mrs.  Ker- 
quham's  lips. 

Even  as  she  spoke  there  was  a  swish  of  silken  skirts 
outside,  and  a  ripple  of  light  laughter  which  died  away  in 
the  rooms  below.  Mr.  Kerquham  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  think  the  girls  will  make  themselves  happy  any- 
where. They  have  had  several  seasons  of  this  kind  of 
thing,  and  they  can  have  just  as  much  pleasure,  only  of  a 
different  kind,  at  the  Manor.  I  do  not  want  to  spoil 
their  lives  for  them.  I  do  not  want  to  dock  them  of  a 
single  moment  of  happiness.  They  are  young  enough 
and  light-hearted  enough  to  be  as  pleased  with  horses 
and  bicycles  and  golf  and  tennis  as  with  supper  parties 
and  balls,  theaters  and  the  Row  on  Sunday." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  buttoned  her  first  long  glove  with  a 
decided  air.  She  said  nothing,  but  her  mind  was  filled 
with  doubts  as  to  the  reception  that  Laura  and  Honor 
would  give  to  the  news  that  in  a  few  short  weeks  their 
career  in  London  society  was  to  end,  and  that  they  were 
to  be  condemned  to  the  country  for  an  indefinite  period. 


70  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  idea?"  said  Mr.  Kerqu- 
ham,  a  little  anxiously,  trying  to  read  something  in  his 
wife's  cold,  impassive  face. 

"What  I  think,  Alban,  is  that  you  should  go  and  dress 
and  get  ready  to  receive  our  guests.  The  suggestion 
you  make  is  far  too  startling  a  one  to  be  either  consid- 
ered or  discussed  in  the  space  of  a  few  minutes.  It  is 
striking  ten  now.  At  any  moment  I  may  be  wanted 
downstairs.  We  will  certainly  talk  the  matter  over  at 
some  future  date." 

Gathering  up  her  fan  and  bouquet,  and  submitting 
herself  to  a  last  inspection  in  the  long  mirror,  Mrs.  Ker- 
quham  swept  downstairs  in  all  the  glory  of  brocade  and 
old  lace,  leaving  her  husband  to  walk  slowly  to  his  dress- 
ing-room and  go  through  the  monotonous  process  of 
getting  into  evening  clothes. 

As  Mrs.  Kerquham  walked  through  her  rooms  and 
gave  a  last  inspection  all  round  she  was  outwardly  quite 
calm,  but  in  her  heart  she  was  more  angry  with  her  hus- 
band than  she  had  ever  been  since  the  day  she  married 
him.  She  had  been  an  ambitious  woman  for  many  years 
for  him,  and  since  his  position  had  become  assured  her 
desires  for  aggrandisement  had  been  centred  on  her 
daughters.  The  day  that  Laura  was  seventeen  and  made 
her  debut  into  society,  Mrs.  Kerquham  had  solemnly 
prayed  to  God  that  her  girl  should  make  a  brilliant  mar- 
riage. It  was  to  that  end  she  had  sat  up  late  night  after 
night ;  that  she  had  done  violence  to  her  feelings  and  gone 
to  noisy  suppers  at  the  Savoy,  and  parties  at  houses  where 
the  company  was  as  mixed  as  it  was  merry.  It  was  for 
that  that  she  had  slaved  through  lists  of  afternoon  calls; 
had  lived  in  poky  lodgings  at  Henley  during  regatta 
time;  had  joined  gay  parties  for  Ascot  week,  and,  at  the 
end  of  the  season,  commenced  the  round  all  over  again 


MAN  PROPOSES  71 

at  Homburg  in  August.  It  was  for  the  sake  of  her 
daughters  that  she  had  known  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
men,  and  women  whom  she  thought  might  influence 
those  men. 

For  three  years  she  had  believed  that  Laura's  Dres- 
den-china beauty  and  piquant  ways  were  going  to  win 
her  a  rich  and  titled  husband.  It  had  only  been  during 
the  last  few  months  that  vague  hints,  half-formed  suspi- 
cions, and  fleeting  doubts  had  assailed  her  as  to  the 
reasons  for  Laura's  undoubted  popularity  with  men. 
She  had  caught  the  whispers  of  dowagers  in  ball-rooms 
about  "that  fast  Miss  Kerquham."  She  had  seen  other 
women,  whose  daughters  had  married  straight  from  the 
school-room,  look  at  her  rather  pityingly  when  s.he  went 
about  with  the  three  girls  at  her  skirts.  She  had  watched 
for  little  overt  looks  full  of  meaning,  and  had  knowledge 
of  double  meanings  in  apparently  innocent  sentences. 

The  beginning  of  this  season  had  almost  proved  to 
her  that  Laura  was  going  to  be  a  disappointment.  She 
refused  to  believe  that  her  girl  would  not  marry  at  all, 
but  she  feared  that  she  was  going  to  marry  badly. 

After  Honor's  future  state  she  had  never  troubled. 
She  was  quite  aware  that  she  had  a  mauvaise  langue,  and 
despite  her  youthful  prettiness  would  probably  grow  at 
an  early  age  into  a  sour-looking  woman,  but  she  felt  sure 
she  would  marry  some  one — a  rising  professional  man 
most  likely,  who  would  want  a  sharp-witted  woman  to 
push  him  in  the  world  and  a  shrew  to  look  after  his  serv- 
ants. 

And  what  of  Rosamund?  When  she  had  first  come 
into  Mrs.  Kerquham's  calculations  she  had  been  only  a 
stumbling-block.  But  her  rare,  stately  beauty,  her  dig- 
nified, quiet  manner,  which  had  begun  by  being  foils  to 
Laura's  freer  manners,  ended  by  making  the  latter  seem 


73  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

merely  vulgar.  At  first  Mrs.  Kerquham  had  been  afraid 
that  Rosamund  would  annex  Laura's  admirers,  but  she 
was  constrained  to  admit  that  the  girl  seemed  utterly 
oblivious  of  the  existence  of  such  people,  and  when,  as 
had  happened  on  more  than  one  occasion,  a  young  man, 
wounded  by  Miss  Kerquham's  arrant  flirtations  and 
hopelessly  inconstant  ways,  had  attempted  to  fly  to  the 
more  staple  and  sedate  Miss  Keith  for  consolation,  he 
had  been  ignored  with  quiet  scorn. 

It  had  not  been  until  all  the  girls  had  been  out  for 
some  two  or  three  years  that  Mrs.  Kerquham  realised 
that  the  one  of  them  who  might  help  the  others  in  the 
matter  of  marriage  was  Rosamund  Keith,  and  that  she 
would  best  do  so  by  marrying  well  herself. 

When  once  she  had  got  this  idea  into  her  head  and 
had  grown  accustomed  to  it,  Mrs.  Kerquham  began  to 
lay  snares.  Various  eligible  young  men,  who  to  do  them 
justice  were  nothing  loth,  were  trotted  out  for  Miss 
Keith's  inspection  and  approval;  but  she  simply  would 
not  look  at  them.  She  had  several  very  good  proposals, 
but  contented  herself  with  refusing  one  after  another, 
and  going  quietly  back  to  her  uncle's  studio,  where  she 
made  herself  happy  in  cleaning  his  brushes  and  setting 
his  palettes. 

Mrs.  Kerquham  had  at  first  been  a  little  amused  at 
what  she  called  the  "picksomeness"  of  her  husband's 
niece,  but  as  the  months  flew  by  matters  grew  more  seri- 
ous. Every  fresh  escapade  of  Laura's  placed  a  good 
marriage  for  her  further  out  of  the  question,  and  now 
here  was  this  last  blow  of  all.  They  were  to  go  into 
the  country.  She  guessed  how  such  a  scheme  would  turn 
out.  It  would  mean  Midshire  in  the  hunting  season  and 
Scotland  in  the  summer,  where  the  only  people  they  would 
see,  except  their  own  servants,  would  be  a  few  old 


MAN  PROPOSES  73 

cronies  who  would  come  up  for  a  fortnight's  fishing  when 
the  streams  were  in  good  ply. 

How  was  Laura  to  get  settled  in  such  places?  It  was 
positively  ridiculous  to  anticipate  her  marriage  under 
such  hopelessly  disadvantageous  circumstances,  and  yet 
she  dared  not  fight  the  plan  too  hard,  for  in  her  heart  she 
acknowledged  that  her  husband  was  ailing.  Margot 
Kerquham  was  hard-headed  enough  to  know  what  the 
death  of  her  husband  would  mean  to  her.  It  would 
mean  a  critical  income,  a  little  house,  no  carriages  and 
horses,  no  pleasures  save  those  that  were  cheap  or  free. 
It  would  mean  that  the  girls  would  have  to  make  such 
frocks  as  they  could  afford  to  buy  material  for,  and  trim 
their  own  hats.  She  smiled  a  little  grimly  at  the  idea  of 
idle,  do-nothing  Laura  trimming  a  hat.  It  would  mean 
that  Honor's  temper  would  get  worse  day  by  day,  and 
that  Laura,  sooner  than  face  the  existence  that  a  small 
competency  entails,  might  kick  over  the  traces  alto- 
gether. Altogether  it  was  a  pretty  quandary,  and  as  she 
passed  through  her  fine  reception  rooms,  where  already 
the  light  dresses  of  the  girls  were  making  bright  patches 
of  colour  against  the  handsome  hangings  and  dark  foliage 
of  the  palms,  Mrs.  Kerquham's  state  of  mind  was  not 
one  to  be  envied. 

She  walked  over  to  the  great  bay  window  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  cast  an  eye  round  the  verandah,  which, 
draped  with  Eastern  stuffs,  filled  with  broad  divans,  and 
lit  with  Chinese  lanterns,  made  a  deliciously  cool  retreat. 
She  looked  at  it  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing,  for  she  was 
still  absorbed  in  finding  an  answer  to  the  great  conun- 
drum— should  she,  or  should  she  not,  consent  to  leave 
London? 

Suddenly  Laura  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  in  a 
rather  high  voice  said: 


74 

"Mother,  what  on  earth  does  this  mean?  The  whole 
of  the  verandah  is  enclosed  round  with  netting — wire 
netting.  Nobody  can  get  outside  and  walk  in  the  gar- 
den. Whoever  had  such  a  thing  done?" 

"The  verandah  has  been  netted  in  by  my  orders, 
Laura." 

"By  your  orders,  mother?  Whatever  for?"  The 
girl  looked  so  annoyed  that  Mrs.  Kerquham,  whose 
strong  mind  had  always  been  subservient  to  her  favourite 
daughter's  petulant  will,  attempted  to  excuse  herself. 

"My  dear,  I  thought  the  garden  would  be  damp,  and 
that  some  of  you  girls,  in  your  thin  shoes  and  low  gowns, 
would  catch  cold." 

"Rubbish!"  said  Laura,  rudely.  "You  know  it  is  a 
perfect  night,  as  hot  as  possible,  and  here  we  are  shut  in 
like  so  many  children.  Why  have  you  done  it?"  She 
stamped  one  satin-shod  foot  on  the  parquet  floor.  "You 
will  make  us  the  laughing-stock  of  the  town.  Already 
Mr.  Morton  and  Mr.  Abbotsford  and  Nellie  Carmichael 
over  there  are  calling  this  place  the  hen-coop.  It  is  a 
positive  disgrace." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  plucked  up  some  spirit  in  defence  of 
her  own  act. 

"My  dear  Laura,  I  do  not  approve,  and  I  never  shall 
approve,  of  young  men  and  young  women  strolling  about 
at  all  hours  of  the  night  in  gardens  and  places.  There 
is  plenty  of  room  here  for  your  friends  to  sit  out  if  they 
choose,  but  I  will  not  have  it  said  that  the  same  free  and 
easy  manners  prevail  in  my  house  as  are  customary  in 
other  people's." 

Honor  overheard  the  last  few  words  of  her  mother's 
speech. 

"Oh!  you  are  insulting  all  our  morals  now,"  she  said, 
with  a  spiteful  flash  of  her  eyes.  "Insinuating  that  we 


MAN  PROPOSES  75 

are  none  of  us  able  to  take  care  of  ourselves.  Perhaps 
you  would  like  me  to  tell  the  girls  as  they  come  in  that 
they  are  not  proper  people,  and  that  you  imagine  they 
can  only  be  kept  within  the  bounds  of  decent  behaviour 
by  being  watched  all  the  evening." 

But  Laura's  temper  by  now  had  simmered  down.  She 
had  a  plan  in  her  brain  by  which  she  and  her  particular 
friends  could  easily  slip  out  into  the  garden  if  they  chose. 

"Be  quiet,  Honor;  of  course  it  is  ridiculous,  but  it  is 
no  use  making  a  fuss  about  it  now."  She  drew  her  sis- 
ter away,  and  as  they  walked  over  the  polished  floor, 
she  bent  down  and  whispered  in  her  ear:  "Try  the  smok- 
ing-room window ;  they  will  not  have  wired  that  over. 
Tell  Nellie  and  Cora  and  the  two  Danvers  girls,  and  of 
course  we  can  take  out  anybody  we  like  that  way." 

As  she  saw  her  two  daughters  whispering  together, 
Mrs.  Kerquham  felt  that  all  her  misplaced  efforts  had 
been  in  vain;  that  she  had  merely  made  herself  and  her 
old-fashioned  notions  of  decent,  ladylike  behaviour 
ridiculous  by  wiring  in  the  verandah,  and  that  in  half 
an  hour  the  moonlit  gardens  and  its  shady  alleys  would 
be  full  of  girls  and  young  men,  laughing  and  kissing — 
'  'spooning,'  I  think  they  call  it,"  she  said  to  herself — 
to  the  tune  of  the  nightingales.  Altogether  the  evening 
scarcely  promised  to  be  a  pleasant  one  for  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham, and  as  she  turned  from  the  window  to  take  her 
place  by  the  door  to  receive  her  guests,  she  wished  that 
she  had  never  acceded  to  Laura's  wish  at  all,  and  con- 
sented to  give  a  ball. 

As  she  reached  the  doorway  she  caught  sight  of  Lord 
St.  Ives  walking  up  the  long  corridor  in  his  usual  leis- 
urely manner.  He  was  the  one  man  who  might  save  the 
situation,  and  so  she  forced  a  smile  to  her  thin,  hard 
lips,  and  gave  him  a  more  than  usually  gracious  greeting. 


76          THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"I  am  so  very  glad  you  have  come,  and  in  such  good 
time,  too.  There  are  so  many  things  I  wish  to  speak  to 
you  about.  I  feel  you  are  such  a  friend  of  the  family 
that  I  can  say  things  to  you  that  I  should  not  care  about 
discussing  with  anybody  else.  I  should  like  to  speak  to 
you  at  supper  time." 

As  Lord  St.  Ives  bowed  over  her  hand  he  wondered 
to  himself  what  it  all  meant.  He  was  of  the  age  when 
a  man  ought  to  know  the  world;  he  would  never  see 
forty-five  again.  He  had  led  a  life  that  was  not  exactly 
conducive  to  ignorance,  and  in  the  early  morning  the 
effect  of  it  showed  a  little  too  distinctly  on  his  face;  but 
he  had  managed  to  keep  his  figure,  and  being  a  well-bred 
looking  man,  had  by  night  an  air  of  distinction  about 
him  which  certainly  made  him  an  ornament  in  any  aver- 
age drawing-room. 

He  passed  on  into  the  room,  his  eyes  seeking  every- 
where for  Rosamund  Keith;  Mrs.  Kerquham  knew  per- 
fectly well  for  whom  he  was  looking,  and  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  accept  the  inevitable.  For  months  she  had 
hoped  that  his  frequent  visits  to  the  house  would  culmi- 
nate in  a  proposal  to  Laura,  but  she  had  lately  realised 
that  such  remnants  of  a  heart  as  were  left  to  his  lordship 
had  been  laid  at  her  niece's  feet.  He  saw  Rosamund 
almost  at  once,  for  her  more  than  common  height  made 
her  conspicuous  even  in  a  crowd.  He  did  not  walk 
straight  up  to  her,  however,  but  stopped  to  exchange 
words  with  almost  every  one,  as  he  crossed  the  room. 

"Some  one  is  looking  for  you,  Rosamund,"  said 
Honor,  as  she  saw  Lord  St.  Ives'  carefully  arranged 
head  coming  slowly  through  the  swaying  throng. 

<4I  am  to  be  found  here,"  answered  Rosamund  quite 
quietly,  and  to  Honor's  disappointment  neither  blushing 
nor  looking  in  the  least  conscious. 


MAN  PROPOSES  77 

Presently,  and  as  though  quite  by  accident,  Lord  St. 
Ives  stood  before  Rosamund. 

"Ah!  Good  evening,  Miss  Keith.  I  trust  you  got 
my  flowers."  He  glanced  at  the  big  bouquet  which  she 
carried  in  her  hand;  it  was  of  white  lilies,  and  not  the 
one  he  had  sent  her. 

"Yes,  and  I  thank  you  for  them,"  said  Rosamund, 
simply. 

"I  had  hoped  that  you  would  have  carried  them 
to-night." 

Most  girls  would  have  prevaricated  and  talked  about 
the  colour  of  their  gowns  or  the  scent  of  the  flowers,  but 
Rosamund,  in  her  calm,  direct  way,  looked  into  his  eyes, 
and  said : 

"Yours  were  very  nice,  Lord  St.  Ives,  but  I  liked 
these  better,"  and  she  raised  the  lilies  and  laid  them 
against  her  face. 

"Or  the  giver?"  Lord  St.  Ives  felt  it  was  bad  man- 
ners, but  he  could  not  help  the  words  slipping  from  him. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Rosamund. 

"How  cruel  you  are!"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  trying  to 
pass  off  his  other  remark.  "How  many  dances  are  you 
going  to  give  me?" 

"I  will  dance  with  you  with  pleasure." 

"Yes,  but  how  often?     Once  or  twice?" 

"It  is  early  in  the  evening,  Lord  St.  Ives,  and  I  have 
many  great  friends  coming  to-night;  I  cannot  promise 
you  more  than  one." 

She  passed  by  him,  leaving  him  sulkily  leaning  against 
the  wall. 

"Commend  me  to  that  girl  for  pride,"  he  muttered. 
"One  would  think  she  was  a  duchess  or  the  daughter  of 
a  millionaire,  instead  of  being  a  pauper  and  heaven 
knows  who!  But  she  does  fetch  me,  I  never  saw  a  girl 


78  THE  PASSION   OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

I  liked  so  much  or  wanted  so  badly.  She  doesn't  make 
herself  cheap  as  the  rest  of  them  do." 

He  looked  scornfully  at  the  fluttering  crowd  of  girls, 
all  smiling  and  nodding  and  hiding  their  disappoint- 
ments and  petty  jealousies,  and  putting  bold  faces  on 
everything,  all  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  word  or  a  dance 
from  the  young  men  who  hung  round  the  doors  and 
windows  in  groups  and  laughed  at  them  behind  their 
backs. 

Lord  St.  Ives  flattered  himself  he  was  a  good  judge  of 
women,  and  he  certainly  had  had  over  twenty-five  years' 
experience  of  them  and  their  ways.  He  watched  Rosa- 
mund now  as  she  moved  about  the  room,  much  as  a  lover 
of  horses  watches  and  gloats  over  the  points  of  some 
thoroughbred  animal  that  has  caught  his  fancy  and  is  to 
make  his  fortune.  She  was  in  black;  it  was  something 
clear  and  soft  that  floated  like  a  cloud  about  her  and 
made  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  her  neck  and  arms  almost 
too  startling  by  contrast.  A  silver  belt  was  clasped 
about  her  waist,  and  as  she  danced  her  beautiful  body 
swayed  from  the  hips  up  with  the  absolute  freedom  and 
subtleness  of  healthy,  perfectly-formed  womanhood.  A 
little  string  of  milk-white  pearls  was  round  her  throat, 
and  at  the  back  of  her  neck  an  airy  cloud  of  ringlets  cast 
a  faint  shade.  She  wore  no  other  jewels,  and  had 
nothing  but  the  perfect  outlines  of  her  bare  shoulders 
and  bosom,  the  glorious  column  of  her  full  white  throat, 
and  the  sweet  small  oval  of  her  face  to  commend  her. 
But  to-night  she  seemed  very  happy;  her  great  velvety 
eyes  danced  like  stars,  and  her  scarlet  lips  were  parted 
in  radiant  smiles. 

"I  never  saw  her  look  so  well,"  thought  St.  Ives. 
"I  did  not  even  know  she  had  so  much  expression." 

Then  he   caught  sight  of  the  man  she  was  dancing 


MAN  PROPOSES  79 

with.  It  was  Paul  Carr,  and  he  wore  in  his  coat  some 
lilies  like  those  that  Rosamund  carried  in  her  hand. 

"Damn!"  muttered  St.  Ives  to  himself,  and  he  strode 
down  the  long  corridor  into  the  refreshment  room. 

Mrs.  Kerquham,  for  the  moment  relieved  from  the 
fatigues  of  "reception,  was  sipping  a  cup  of  coffee.  One 
glance  at  Lord  St.  Ives'  face  showed  her  that  something 
was  wrong.  She  put  down  her  cup  and  went  over  to  him. 

"Dreadfully  hot  in  the  ball-room,  I  suppose?"  she 
said.  "I  really  had  to  leave  it  for  a  few  moments. 
Won't  you  come  into  the  verandah?"  Still  glowering, 
Lord  St.  Ives  offered  his  hostess  his  arm.  "It  was  so 
kind  of  you  to  come  all  this  way  to-night,"  she  began, 
when  once  they  were  sitting  in  a  lamp-lit  corner.  "We 
live  so  far  out  from  what  all  you  men  call  'London.'  In 
fact,  I  have  often  wondered  lately  how  you  could  find 
time  to  come  here  so  much." 

"Your  house  is  so  attractive,  Mrs.  Kerquham,  and 
the  entertainment  you  give  your  guests  so  agreeable 
that  one  thinks  nothing  of  a  little  distance,"  said  Lord 
St.  Ives,  politely,  and  wondering  as  he  spoke  when  that 
confounded  valse  would  stop,  and  when  that  tall  fellow 
Carr  would  take  his  arm  from  about  Rosamund's  slender 
waist. 

"Yes,  our  house  is  nice,"  said  Mrs.  Kerquham  with  a 
carefully  modulated  sigh.  "Our  dear  house!  I  shall 
be  so  sorry  to  leave  it." 

"Ah!  where  are  you  off  to  this  autumn,  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham?" said  Lord  St.  Ives,  indifferently,  and  trying  to 
see  if  from  where  he  sat  he  could  get  a^peep  into  the  ball- 
room. "Is  it  to  be  Homburg  again,  or  Switzerland?"" 

"Neither;  we  are  going  to  Scotland." 

"Charming!  charming!"  said  Lord  St.  Ives.  "Quite 
the  place  to  go  to.  There  is  nothing  like  it.  It  suits 


8o  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

me  admirably.  I  wonder  if  you  will  be  anywhere  near 
where  I  am  booked  for?  But  even  if  you  are  not,  you 
always  come  south  early  in  the  autumn,  and  I  do  not 
think  of  staying  away  long  this  year  myself." 

"We  are  leaving  London  for  good,"  said  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham,  tragically. 

"For  good?  Going  to  give  up  'The  Hurst,'  this  aw- 
fully nice  house  and  everything!  Why,  what  is  that  for?" 

Lord  St.  Ives  wondered  whether  Mr.  Kerquham  had 
been  speculating,  or  whether  the  price  of  pictures  was 
falling  off,  or  what  it  could  be  that  was  affecting  the 
family  finances,  and  as  he  wondered  he  thanked  his  stars 
that  his  own  monetary  position  placed  him  above  any 
consideration  of  marrying  for  money. 

"Mr.  Kerquham  says  he  can  work  in  London  no 
longer.  His  health  is  not  what  it  was,  and  so  we  are 
going  to  live  between  Scotland  and  Midshire. " 

"But  surely,*'  said  Lord  St.  Ives,  "you  and  your 
daughters  and  Miss  Keith  will  be  here." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  drew  herself  up,  and  the  Puritanical 
expression  settled  down  over  her  hard  features. 

"The  place  of  a  wife  and  children  is  by  the  side  of 
the  husband  and  father,  Lord  St.  Ives." 

"Oh — er — ah — yes — I — yes,  of  course!  I  beg  your 
pardon,"  stammered  his  lordship. 

"Well,  Lord  St.  Ives,"  went  on  Mrs.  Kerquham  con- 
fidentially, "I  do  not  mind  telling  you  that  this  plan  of 
my  husband's  of  leaving  town  is  a  great  blow  to  me 
and" — looking  at  him  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  and 
watching  the  effect  of  every  word — "I  think  I  may  say 
that  it  will  be  a  great  blow  to  at  least  one  of  my  young 
people." 

Lord  St.  Ives  settled  his  shirt  front  and  stroked  his 
moustache. 


MAN  PROPOSES  8 1 

"You  think  that  Miss—?" 

"Oh!  no  names,  please!"  cried  Mrs.  Kerquham.  "I 
have  no  desire  to  be  your  confidant,  Lord  St.  Ives,  until 
you  have  something  to  tell  me." 

"Deuced  clever  woman  that,"  said  his  lordship  to 
himself,  as  Mrs.  .Kerquham  left  him  to  chew  the  cud  of 
her  discourse.  "I  suppose  they  are  going  away  directly; 
I  had  better  speak  to-night,  perhaps.  When  a  family  is 
on  the  move  you  can  never  get  a  word  with  any  one,  and 
Miss  Keith  is  not  the  sort  of  girl  one  could  ask  out  to  a 
quiet  luncheon  and  have  to  one's  self.  Thank  goodness, 
that  beastly  valse  is  over!" 

But  when  he  got  back  into  the  ball-room  he  found 
Rosamund  engaged  for  the  next  six  dances,  and  it  was 
not  until  after  he  had  supped  that  he  chanced  to  find  her 
for  a  moment  alone  and  disengaged. 

"Give  me  the  next;  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Rosamund  Keith  did  not  like  Lord  St.  Ives;  she  was 
always  a  little  frightened  of  him,  of  his  bold  eyes  and 
of  the  peculiar  smile  he  had  whenever  he  looked  at  her, 
but  she  knew  her  duty  to  her  aunt's  guests,  and  if  she 
took  his  arm  with  a  lack  of  cordiality,  she  acceded  with 
sufficient  politeness  to  his  request  that  she  would  sit  out 
the  dance  with  him  in  the  verandah. 

They  had  that  haven  of  refuge  all  to  themselves,  for 
the  majority  of  the  guests  were  supping,  and  only  a  few 
inveterate  dancers  were  floating  over  the  polished  floor. 

"Let  me  get  you  some  cushions,"  said  Lord  St.  Ives, 
collecting  half  a  dozen  and  piling  them  behind  her,  and 
in  so  doing  making  such  a  nest  for  her  that  without  abso- 
lutely rising  she  could  not  shift  her  place.  Then  he 
flung  himself  down  at  her  side,  and  leaning  on  his  elbow, 
began  to  look  at  her  with  that  hateful  coarse  look  that 
made  her  feel  ashamed  and  hot  and  red  all  over, 


82  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"How  splendid  you  are  looking  to-night!"  he  said 
presently,  half  under  his  breath.  "But  you  have  been  a 
little  cruel  about  the  flowers,  you  know.  I  chose  them 
so  especially  for  you — great  queenly  red  roses,  I  thought 
they  would  just  suit  your  style  of  beauty.  Those  things, " 
and  he  flicked  with  his  gloves  the  lilies  lying  in  her  lap, 
"are  so  'missish. '  ' 

She  did  not  answer,  but  merely  took  the  bouquet  in 
her  hand  and  placed  it  on  her  other  side. 

"Now  I  have  offended  you,"  he  cried.  "Who  gave 
you  those  flowers?" 

"They  came  without  any  card,  but  I  think  that  Mr. 
Carr  sent  them." 

He  looked  at  her  with  admiration. 

"By  heavens!  you  are  a  wonder!  Any  other  girl 
would  have  told  a  lie  about  it." 

"What  for?  I  am  not  ashamed  of  receiving  flowers 
from  Mr.  Carr." 

"Oh,  bother  Mr.  Carr!"  said  St.  Ives,  edging  still  a 
little  nearer.  "Let's  talk  about  something  else.  Let's 
talk  about — about  you." 

"I'm  afraid  I  am  not  very  interesting,"  said  Rosa- 
mund, forcing  a  little  laugh  and  feeling  furious  with 
herself,  as  against  every  instinct  and  wish  of  hers  she 
grew  hotly  red  again. 

His  eyes  burned  with  admiration  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"Interesting?"  he  said.  "You  are  the  most  interest- 
ing woman  in  all  the  world  to  me." 

"Now  that  is  a  very  pretty  compliment,  Lord  St. 
Ives,"  said  Rosamund,  fighting  hard  to  get  the  conver- 
sation back  into  a  light,  indifferent  vein. 

"It  is  not  a  compliment,  and  you  know  it,"  he  said, 
rather  roughly.  "You  know  perfectly  well,  without  my 
telling  you,  that  I  am  awfully  fond  of  you.  I  never  was 


MAN  PROPOSES  83 

so  gone  on  any  woman  before.  Of  course,  I  have  always 
liked  your  sex;  I  think  they  are  charming,  and  one  could 
not  quite  get  on  without  them,  but — " 

She  held  up  her  hand. 

"I  have  no  desire  to  hear  your  confidences  about 
other  women." 

"Well,  no;  I  do  not  suppose  you  have,"  he  stam- 
mered a  little  awkwardly,  and  put  off  for  the  moment  by 
her  rather  offended  air.  "I  do  not  want  to  talk  about 
other  women,  either.  I  only  want  to  talk  of  you." 

"Please  don't,"  said  Rosamund. 

"Well,  then,  I  want  to  talk  about  myself.  Shall  we 
put  it  that  way?" 

He  took  hold  of  a  little  piece  of  the  stuff  of  her  dress 
and  began  fiddling  with  it  with  his  large  strong  hands. 

"I  know  I  am  not  much  of  a  subject  to  talk  about, 
but  if  you  would  only  listen  for  a  few  minutes — I  want 
to  ask  you — " 

The  thick  fingers  crept  up  from  her  gown  until  they 
touched  her  bare  arm.  With  a  little  exclamation  of 
anger  she  sprang  up,  as  though  a  hot  iron  had  burned 
her  flesh. 

"I  beg  a  thousand  pardons,"  he  cried,  rising,  too. 
"I  did  not  know  you  were  so  particular  as  all  that." 

Something  in  her  attitude  seemed  to  madden  him;  he 
advanced  towards  her  and  caught  her  two  hands  in  his. 

"I  wonder  if  that  prudish,  icy  way  of  yours  is  all  put 
on  just  to  drive  me  mad.  I  wonder  if  you  are  any  bet- 
ter than  the  rest  of  your  sex,  and  if  you  are  not  playing 
with  me  all  the  time.  But  I  do  not  care  whether  you  are 
or  not.  You  are  the  girl  I  want,  and  the  girl  I  will 
have." 

He  had  caught  her  by  the  arms  now,  and  strong  and 
supple  as  she  was,  she  felt  herself  being  gradually  drawn 


84          THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

into  his  embrace.  His  burning  eyes  pierced  hers,  his  hot 
breath  was  close  upon  her  mouth. 

"Miss  Keith,  this  dance  is  ours!"  said  a  voice  behind 
them. 

The  words  acted  like  ice  upon  Lord  St.  Ives.  With 
a  muttered  oath  he  released  Rosamund,  caught  up  his 
hat,  and  strode  into  the  house.  She,  with  all  her  will 
gone  for  the  moment,  and  all  her  control  broken  down, 
put  out  her  hands  to  Paul  Carr  like  a  little  child,  and 
tottered  towards  him,  crying,  "I  am  so  frightened;  I  am 
so  frightened!" 

For  a  moment  Paul  thought  she  was  going  to  be  hys- 
terical, as  she  sank  sobbing  into  his  arms.  Without  a 
moment's  thought  he  dragged  aside  a  strip  of  hanging 
drapery,  and  by  sheer  weight  forced  a  piece  of  the  wire 
netting  away  from  its  frail  fastenings. 

"Come  into  the  air,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 

A  moment  later  she  was  standing  with  Paul  out  in  the 
clear,  white  flood  of  moonlight.  The  whole  garden  was 
bathed  in  it,  and  the  nightingales  were  singing  at  the 
bottom  of  the  avenue.  The  house  before  her  was  all  lit 
up,  and  the  crash  of  music  rose  and  fell  on  the  night  air. 
They  had  been  playing  that  bit  of  the  valse  a  few  minutes 
ago,  when  the  other  man  had  caught  her  by  her  arms 
and  drawn  her  to  him.  With  a  shudder  she  drew  her 
hand  across  her  mouth.  Paul  Carr  guessed  what  the 
action  meant. 

"He  did  not  kiss  you!" 

She  dropped  her  arms  down  to  her  sides  again  and 
stared  straight  before  her.  Though  she  was  now  out- 
wardly calm,  her  outraged  womanhood,  her  insulted  pur- 
ity, was  still  surging  and  beating  at  her  heart  and  in  her 
temples.  She  could  almost  have  screamed  at  the  mem- 
ory of  that  moment. 


MAN  PROPOSES  85 

"Are  you  feeling  better?"  said  Paul.  "How  white 
you  are,  and  you  are  shaking  so!  Walk  a  little;  it  will 
do  you  good." 

He  drew  one  of  her  arms  through  his  and  led  her 
across  the  lawn  to  the  avenue  where  the  birds  were  sing- 
ing. The  moment  she  was  out  of  the  light  her  strained 
nerves  gave  way,  and  putting  her  two  hands  before  her 
face,  she  began  to  cry. 

"How  that  brute  has  frightened  you!"  cried  Carr. 

He  did  not  try  to  stop  her  tears ;  some  instinct  told 
him  she  would  be  better  for  the  shedding  of  them. 
Gradually  her  sobs  grew  quieter,  and  with  a  little  shame- 
faced "I  am  very  sorry,"  she  dragged  a  scrap  of  a  hand- 
kerchief out  of  the  bosom  of  her  gown  and  dried  her 
eyes. 

Presently  with  a  long-drawn,  trembling  sigh  she  raised 
her  face.  She  was  composed  now,  though  the  dark 
fringes  of  her  lashes  sparkled  with  tears.  Again  a  sob- 
bing sigh  swelled  her  white  bosom,  but  she  caught  it  in 
her  throat  and  strangled  it,  for  in  the  low  bough  that 
hung  motionless  in  the  warm  air  above  her  head  a  full- 
voiced  nightingale  burst  into  a  mighty  flood  of  song. 

Paul,  watching  every  expression  of  her  face,  saw  the 
tension  and  the  shame  die  out  of  it.  He  noted  how  her 
quivering  lips  settled  once  more  into  their  calm  curves, 
and  how  her  gracious  head  fell  into  the  tilted  pose  that 
became  her  so  well. 

As  the  rich,  throbbing  song  died  in  the  blue  night 
Rosamund  spoke: 

"That  music  is  like  a  message  from  heaven.  How 
foolish — how  idle — to  be  angry — or  grieved  at  things 
that  happen,  when  God  sends  us  such  compensations  as 
that.  Listen!"  She  lifted  one  slender  hand.  "He  is 
going  to  sing  again!" 


86  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

A  shaft  of  the  white  moon  rays  had  pierced  the  thick 
foliage  and  fell  on  her  face  and  throat,  as  she  stood 
enraptured  and  all  unconscious  that  Paul's  soul  was  in 
the  eyes  he  bent  on  her.  She  did  not  even  know  that 
his  hand  had  crept  to  hers  and  held  her  slight,  cool 
fingers  in  an  ardent  clasp. 

It  was  only  when  for  a  moment  the  little  singing 
bird  checked  his  flood  of  melody  that  Rosamund  started 
to  find  Paul  was  so  close  to  her. 

"Ah!  Rosamund,  you  will  not  draw  away  from  me. 
Dearest,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  love  you — that  I  adore 
you,  reverence  you,  as  a  man  worships  a  star  or  a  saint." 

Gently  he  drew  her  nearer  to  him,  until,  all  trembling 
and  sweet,  she  stood  within  the  circle  of  his  arms. 

"My  dear  love,  do  not  fear — do  not  tremble."  Pale 
as  a  lily,  yet  bravely  fighting  all  the  maiden  modesty  of 
her  pure  nature,  she  raised  her  eyes — twin  lakes  of  can- 
dour and  truth — to  his. 

"I  do  not  fear  you — and  if  I  tremble — it  is  with  joy!" 

"Then  you  love  me! — Rosamund — you  love  me!" 

A  divine  blush  swept  across  the  marble  of  her  throat 
and  cheeks;  a  delicious  mist  of  passion  grew  in  her  dark 
eyes;  the  delicate  bow  of  her  mouth  broke  in  a  shy 
smile. 

"I  love  you,  Paul!" 

His  hands  slipped  from  her  waist  to  her  wrists.  Ten- 
derly, slowly,  he  raised  her  white  arms  till  their  scented 
warmth  was  laid  about  his  neck.  Then,  with  his  eyes 
searching  the  secrets  of  her  own,  and  his  mouth  close  to 
hers,  he  whispered  passionately,  "Kiss  me — heart  of  my 
heart!" 

And  as  she  gave  him  her  virgin  lips,  and  with  them  all 
her  troth  and  love,  the  nightingale  thrilled  the  whole 
avenue  with  the  passion  of  his  song. 


MAN  PROPOSES  87 

But  Paul  was  only  conscious  that  close  above  his 
heart,  clasped  in  his  arms,  was  the  one  woman  he  had 
ever  loved,  the  only  breathing  handiwork  of  God  he  had 
ever  desired.  The  faint  pulsing  of  her  slender  body, 
the  delicate  perfume  of  her  waving  hair,  the  starry  radi- 
ance of  her  dreamy  eyes,  all  intoxicated  him. 

A  laughing  group  of  girls  flitted  across  the  brilliant 
whiteness  of  the  wide  lawn;  the  music  from  the  ball- 
room wailed  and  sobbed  in  a  langourous  valse  measure; 
the  nightingale  shook  the  very  air,  but  he  only  heard 
the  words,  "I  love  you,  Paul!" 

By-and-by  some  thought  crossed  Rosamund's  mind, 
and  she  drew  herself  from  his  embrace,  and  with  her 
palms  laid  upon  his  heart,  to  hold  him  from  her,  mur- 
mured, plaintively,  "Paul,  you  are  not  loving  me  out  of 
pity,  are  you,  because  I  am  poor — ?" 

He  caught  her  back  to  him  with  a  laugh. 

"You  sweetest  soul!  I  love  you  for  yourself,  and  for 
that  only.  If  all  the  world  were  rich  and  you  were  pen- 
niless, I  would  have  you  and  you  alone  for  my  wife." 

He  caught  sight  of  her  serious  face  and  grew  grave 
too. 

"Dearest — you  have  said  you  love  me.  Will  you 
marry  me?" 

For  answer  she  gave  him  her  lips  once  more,  with  all 
the  frankness  of  her  nature. 

"Paul!  I  love  you,  and  I  will  be  your  wife — or  no 
man's." 

They  spoke  but  little  after  that ;  pledged  words  were 
enough  between  them.  But  they  lingered  beneath  the 
fragrant  lime  trees  till  the  fiery-eyed  carriages  whirled 
away  the  tired  dancers,  till  the  fiddles  gave  their  last 
scream,  and  till  the  faint  flush  of  breaking  day  silenced 
the  heavenly  song  of  the  nightingale. 


CHAPTER   VII 

BETWEEN  THE  ACTS 

A  LAST  word  from  Rosamund  to  Paul  Carr,  as  he  took 
leave  of  her  after  the  Kerquham's  dance,  gave  him 
warning  that  all  the  family  were  to  be  at  the  opera  the 
next  evening. 

The  longing  to  see  and  speak  with  his  betrothed  again 
drove  him  to  be  punctually  in  his  stall,  and  from  it  to 
direct  all  his  heart  and  thoughts  to  the  big  box  on  the 
grand  tier.  Laura  was  looking  quite  her  best,  like  a 
beautiful,  audaciously  half-draped  Dresden  figure.  A 
group  of  young  men  were  round  her  chair,  and  she  kept 
whispering  to  them  behind  a  spangled  fan.  Even  Honor 
was  smiling,  and  had  caught  some  reflected  beauty  from 
her  sister.  Mrs.  Kerquham  felt  that  the  evening  was 
being  quite  a  success,  and  though  she  was  inwardly 
dreadfully  bored,  and  could  not  help  wondering  why  such 
discordant  noises  were  necessary  to  the  expression  of 
emotion,  she  managed  to  fix  a  fairly  pleasant  smile  upon 
her  stern  face.  Rosamund,  who  adored  music,  looked 
radiantly  happy.  She  had  flashed  a  little  smile  and  the 
faintest  of  blushes  down  to  Paul  on  her  first  entrance, 
and  then  gave  herself  up  to  whole-hearted  enjoyment  of 
the  glorious  flood  of  sound.  He  noticed  that  she  wore 
some  of  the  lilies  that  he  had  given  her  last  night  in  her 
bosom,  and  that  a  little  brooch  he  had  sent  her  during 
the  afternoon  sparkled  like  a  star  among  the  thick  masses 
of  her  dark  hair. 

88 


BETWEEN  THE  ACTS  89 

After  the  first  act  Paul  went  upstairs,  but  only  to  find 
the  box  door  wide  open  and  a  perfect  flood  of  young  men 
overflowing  into  the  corridor.  Laura  was  standing  out- 
side, but  Rosamund  had  not  left  her  seat,  and  it  was 
quite  impossible  to  force  his  way  to  her.  Lord  St.  Ives 
was  sitting  close  to  Mrs.  Kerquham  and  evidently  per- 
suading her  to  fall  in  with  some  plan  of  his.  Paul  could 
only  smile  at  Miss  Keith  and  bow  to  her  aunt,  and  then 
there  was  no  choice  left  him  but  to  talk  nonsense  to 
Laura  or  to  go  to  the  smoking-room  and  have  a  cigarette. 

In  the  second  long  interval  the  same  scene  was 
enacted  over  again,  but  he  was  more  persistent  this  time 
and  took  up  his  stand  outside  the  box,  determined  to  get 
a  word  with  Rosamund.  Yet  again  he  was  thwarted, 
for  as  he  leant  idly  against  the  wall,  an  arm  was  slipped 
through  his  and  a  man  he  knew  said: 

"Oh,  come  along  with  me,  Carr,  and  have  a  drink. 
It  is  no  use  waiting  about  here." 

They  sauntered  together  down  the  corridor,  Paul 
listening  to  Mr.  Trevor's  confidence  and  comments. 

"Those  Kerquham  girls  will  be  unbearable  if  they  see 
such  a  lot  of  young  men  hanging  round.  They  give 
themselves  airs  enough  already,  goodness  knows!" 

They  turned  into  the  crush-room,  which  was  full  of 
men  who  were  discussing  in  loud  voices  every  known 
subject  under  the  sun — politics  and  finance,  the  scandal 
of  the  boudoir  and  the  coulisse;  smoking-room  stories, 
rumours  about  so-and-so,  racing  tips,  and  gossip  on 
every  conceivable  subject.  Guy  Trevor  loosed  Paul's  arm 
the  moment  he  got  inside  the  door. 

"Hallo!  there  is  Tommy  Coates  over  there;  he  can 
give  me  a  tip  about  the  Ascot  Cup,"  and  he  dashed  off 
into  the  crowd  and  was  lost  at  once. 

Paul  leaned  up  against  the  wall.     He  nodded  idly  here 


90  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

and  there  to  the  men  in  the  crowd  whose  faces  he  knew, 
but  he  was  a  little  vexed — he  did  not  quite  know  whether 
with  himself  or  with  Rosamund — and  he  was  in  no  mood 
for  idle  talk.  In  front  of  him  stood  a  group  of  half  a 
dozen  men.  Three  of  them  were  drinking,  the  others 
were  talking. 

"I  say,"  drawled  a  gentleman  whose  strongly  marked 
features  and  pronounced  twang  stamped  him  as  one  of 
the  "Chosen  People,"  "who  the  deuce  is  that  pretty  girl 
on  the  grand  tier?  The  one  with  something  blue  in  her 
head  and  not  too  much  frock  on.  It  is  Lady  Carruther's 
box,  but  her  ladyship  is  not  there  herself,  so  they  can- 
not be  very  intimate  friends  of  hers." 

A  young  man  with  a  budding  moustache  lifted  his 
head  from  his  tumbler. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  looking  at  her  myself.  Smart 
looking  little  bit  of  goods.  But  the  girl  who  sits  in  the 
far  corner  is  better  looking — black  hair,  big  eyes,  and 
such  a  lovely  neck  and  shoulders!" 

"Don't  care  for  that  sort  myself,"  said  the  first 
speaker.  "The  other's  style  is  more  to  my  taste.  Won- 
der who  they  are?" 

"Don't  you  know?"  queried  a  third.  "I  can  tell  you." 
The  group  gathered  closer  together,  and  Paul  writhed 
inwardly,  for  he  guessed  so  well  what  was  going  to  be 
said. 

"They  are  the  Kerquhams — the  artist's  people,  you 
know." 

"Fiddle-de-dee!"  cried  the  youth.  "Kerquham  paints 
ripping  pictures  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  but  I  don't 
mind  betting  you  an  even  fiver  that  his  women-folk  are 
not  like  that.  That  black-haired  girl  looks  like  a  swell 
of  some  sort." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  the 


BETWEEN   THE  ACTS  91 

small  man.  "She  is  a  poor  relation,  a  niece  or  a  cousin, 
or  an  adopted  daughter  of  old  Kerquham's.  They  say 
she  is  a  very  nice  girl,  and  as  straight  as  a  die." 

"She  must  be  if  St.  Ives  is  after  her,  and  I  see  he's 
been  in  the  box  all  the  evening,"  remarked  the  Jew. 
"He  is  very  fond  of  a  lark,  but  he  means  to  marry  all 
right.  He  told  me  once  that  he  did  not  intend  to  add 
another  shady  Countess  to  the  peerage." 

"Is  the  girl  going  to  have  him?"  asked  some  one. 
"He  is  scarcely  the  kind  of  a  man  a  nice  young  woman 
would  care  about." 

"Scarcely,  but  I  do  not  suppose  that  she  will  have 
very  much  choice  in  the  matter,"  said  the  little  man, 
who  posed  for  knowing  all  about  everything.  "It  is  a 
question  of  Mrs.  K. "  He  winked  very  solemnly.  "She 
wants  to  get  one  of  those  girls  married,  and  as  her 
daughters  are  hanging  fire  a  bit,  she  has  just  lately  been 
turning  her  attention  to  the  other  one." 

The  callow  youth  grew  pink  and  ferocious. 

"But  you  cannot  force  a  girl  in  these  times,"  he  said. 
"By  Jove!  it  is  a  great  shame,  because  you  know,  St. 
Ives  is  a  bit  too  thick  for  any  decent  woman." 

"Don't  you  frighten  yourself,  old  chappie;  St.  Ives 
has  pretty  well  sown  his  wild  oats.  He  is  getting  on  for 
fifty,  you  know,  and  he  has  lived  every  minute  of  his 
life.  He  will  make  a  very  good  husband,  you  see  if  he 
don't,  and  an  earl  with  thirty  thousand  a  year  is  not  to 
be  sneezed  at  by  a  poor  relation,  you  know,  even  although 
she  has  got  a  big  pair  of  eyes  and  fine  dark  hair." 

"Well,  I  call  it  an  absolute  shame!" 

"Call  it  what  you  like,  dear  boy;  call  it  what  you 
like.  Mrs.  K.  is  a  clever  woman;  she  is  Scotch  and 
canny,  and  I  think  she  has  got  his  lordship  on  the  hook 
by  now.  Hallo!  there  goes  the  bell;  come  along. " 


92  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

The  black-coated  stream,  all  laughing  and  joking, 
filed  past  Paul  back  into  the  theatre.  He  sat  down  on 
one  of  the  big  lounges  and  dropped  his  head  into  his 
hands.  So  that  was  the  way  they  talked  of  Rosamund 
and  her  belongings — as  if  she  were  so  much  flesh  and 
blood,  just  put  up  for  sale;  as  though  her  purity  and  her 
innocence,  her  goodness  and  her  happiness  were  market- 
able commodities  that  were  bound  to  fetch  a  high  price 
in  the  world's  market.  Then  he  became  conscious  that 
the  people  behind  the  bar  were  looking  at  him,  and 
he  got  up  and  walked  into  the  corridor  again.  As  he 
passed  Mrs.  Kerquham's  box,  Lord  St.  Ives  came  out, 
holding  the  door  ajar  behind  him. 

"I  have  just  been  making  up  a  little  supper  party  for 
the  Savoy  to-night,  Mr.  Carr, "  he  said,  with  an  assump- 
tion of  cordiality.  "I  hope  you  will  join  us  there.  Mrs. 
Kerquham  says  she  shall  not  stop  till  the  end ;  so  will 
you  meet  us  there  about  eleven?" 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Paul's  tongue  to  refuse,  when  he 
caught  sight  of  Rosamund  through  the  nearly  closed 
door.  She  had  heard  Lord  St.  Ives'  words,  and  had 
turned  her  head  eagerly  and  was  looking  at  Paul. 

"Yes,  I  will  come,"  he  said  in  a  voice  sufficiently  loud 
for  her  to  hear.  Her  eyes  smiled  at  him  before  she  again 
looked  at  the  stage. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  Savoy  none  of  Lord  St.  Ives' 
party  had  appeared  yet,  but  a  table  had  been  reserved. 
He  lit  a  cigarette  and  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps  of 
the  courtyard.  Perhaps  he  might  get  a  chance  of  taking 
Rosamund's  hand  and  whispering  just  one  word  in  her 
ear.  Presently  the  whole  party  drove  up.  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham and  the  three  girls  in  her  own  carriage;  half  a 
dozen  men  packed  into  two  hansoms,  and  Lord  St.  Ives 
last  of  all,  with  a  lady,  in  another  cab. 


BETWEEN  THE  ACTS  93 

"By-the-bye,  Mrs.  Kerquham,"  he  said  in  his  loud 
voice  to  that  lady,  as  she  alighted  from  her  carriage,  "I 
met  Mrs.  Rivington  just  as  we  were  coming  out,  and 
I  brought  her  along  with  me." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  bowed  very  stiffly.  Mrs.  Rivington 
was  a  grass-widow,  whom  she  knew  more  by  repute  than 
personally.  They  exchanged  cards  once  a  year,  but 
there  the  acquaintanceship  ceased,  for  even  the  Scotch- 
woman's altered  view  of  looking  at  things  and  people 
in  general  had  never  been  able  to  include  Mrs.  Rivington 
within  the  bounds  of  her  horizon. 

"How  awfully  jolly!"  cried  Laura,  shaking  Mrs.  Riv- 
ington's  hand.  She  did  it  as  much  to  annoy  her  mother 
as  anything  else,  and  also  with  an  eye  to  secure  an  invi- 
tation some  time  or  other  to  the  grass-widow's  festive 
Sunday  luncheons,  and  tea-gown  smoking  parties,  about 
which  such  quite  too  shocking  stories*were  told. 

With  a  rustle  and  much  chatter  the  party  filed  upstairs 
and  into  the  long,  brilliantly-lit  supper  room.  The 
theatres  were  over,  and  already  the  tables  were  filling 
fast.  Here  and  there,  though,  in  cosy  little  corners 
were  tables  which  watchful  waiters  were  reserving.  They 
were  for  late  comers,  for  wealthy  patrons  of  the  restau- 
rant and  of  pretty  actresses  who  had  to  get  out  of  their 
stage  clothes  and  put  on  their  best  diamonds  and  a  fresh 
layer  of  powder  and  rouge  before  they  could  come  out 
to  supper. 

With  considerable  noise  Lord  St.  Ives'  party  settled 
themselves  down.  Courtesy  demanded  that  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham should  sit  by  her  host's  right  hand,  but  she  felt  very 
out  of  it,  for  Mrs.  Rivington  was  opposite,  and  was 
already  indulging  in  asides  in  which  doubtful  jokes,  innu- 
endoes and  slang  held  the  chief  part.  Paul  slipped  into 
a  seat  next  Rosamund,  though  to  do  so  he  had  to  roughly 


94  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

shoulder  that  same  youth  whose  outspoken  admiration 
he  had  listened  to  an  hour  ago  in  the  crush-room  at 
Covent  Garden.  As  they  drew  their  chairs  to  the  table, 
their  hands  met  for  a  moment. 

"What  a  piece  of  luck,  my  darling!  I  have  been 
wondering  the  whole  night  whether  I  should  get  a  chance 
of- speaking  to  you." 

"Are  you  not  going  to  Mrs.  Tregaskis'  dance  to- 
night?" said  Rosamund.  "I  made  sure  we  should  meet 
there,  and  so  I  did  not  mind  so  much  when  we  could  not 
speak  at  the  opera." 

"I  had  not  meant  to  go,  but  if  you  do,  of  course  I 
will." 

"Aunt  Margot  is  sure  to  take  us,"  said  Rosamund. 
"You  know  she  considers  that  she  doesn't  do  her  duty 
unless  she  keeps  us  up  till  four  o'clock  every  morning. 
For  my  part,  I  faould  rather  go  home  if — "  and  she 
smiled  an  adorable  little  smile — "if  it  were  not  for  you." 

"Oh,  Rosamund,  do  look!"  cried  Laura,  in  her  stri- 
dent voice  across  the  table;  "there  is  that  woman  just 
come  in  whom  we  saw  dancing  the  other  night  at  the 
Paragon.  Don't  you  remember — the  one  who  really  did 
cut  it  so  awfully  fine  in  the  matter  of  clothes?  Those 
she  had  on  looked  as  if  they  were  going  to  drop  off,"  she 
added  for  the  benefit  of  the  giggling  young  men  about 
her.  "Why  she  is  not  a  bit  pretty  off  the  stage!  Such  a 
coarse  looking  lump  of  a  thing,  but  her  diamonds  are 
lovely.  Whoever  gave  them  to  her,  I  wonder?" 

Laura,  launched  on  the  sea  of  social  and  theatrical 
scandals,  set  to  work  to  retail  all  the  gossip  and  slander- 
ous stories  she  had  ever  heard.  She  professed  to  know, 
by  sight,  half  the  notorious  women  who  were  in  the 
room,  and  had  something  she  would  call  "spicy"  to  tell 


BETWEEN   THE  ACTS  95 

about  every  one  of  them.  Now  and  then  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham  looked  reproachfully  in  her  daughter's  direction, 
but  Laura  was  wound  up.  She  had  had  her  third  glass 
of  champagne;  she  had  got  four  young  men  to  talk  to; 
she  knew  she  looked  her  best,  and  that  her  shoulders 
were  as  pretty  as  any  other  woman's;  she  was  in  the 
seventh  circle  of  her  petty  little  heaven  of  delight 
wherein  she  dwelt,  until  soon  after  midnight  the  party 
rose  from  supper. 

"You  will  give  me  the  first  dance  when  you  arrive  at 
Portman  Square,"  pleaded  Paul,  as  he  put  Rosamund's 
cloak  about  her.  "You  know  we  have  not  had  a  word 
alone  together  yet,  and  I  want  to  tell  you  how  sweet  you 
are  looking." 

"Lord  St.  Ives, "  broke  in  Mrs.  Kerquham's  cold 
voice,  "will  not  Mrs.  Rivington  come  with  me,  and  per- 
haps you  will  take  my  niece  Rosamund?" 

But  Mrs.  Rivington,  with  her  daringly  cut  gown,  her 
too  yellow  head,  and  her  carefully  bistred  eyes,  had  for 
the  moment  got  the  whip  hand  of  Lord  St.  Ives'  senses. 

"Ha!  ha!  Mrs.  Kerquham,"  he  cried,  with  a  loud 
laugh.  "Mrs.  Rivington  is  under  a  promise  to  me,  and 
I  am  not  going  to  let  her  off,  you  know.  We  shall  meet 
up  at  the  Tregaskis'  in  a  few  minutes,"  and  taking  his 
charge  familiarly  by  the  arm,  Lord  St.  Ives  turned 
his  now  rather  uncertain  gait  towards  the  outer  staircase, 
and  drove  off  in  a  hansom  with  the  grass-widow. 

"If  I  can  be  of  any  use,"  said  Paul,  "my  brougham 
is  here — " 

But  Mrs.  Kerquham  was  annoyed.  If  Lord  St.  Ives 
intended  to  make  a  fool  of  himself,  she  did  not  intend 
Rosamund  to  give  him  any  loop-hole  of  complaint. 

"Thank  you,   Mr.  Carr,  but  we  can  manage.     Now, 


96  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

girls,  come   along,"   and  she   unceremoniously   hustled 
her  charges  into  the  carriage. 

"Keep  me  all  the  dances,"  whispered  Paul,  as  Rosa- 
mund passed  him  with  downcast  eyes.  Then  he  turned 
to  the  men: 

"Now,  then,  to  whom  of  you  can  I  give  a  lift?" 
And  the  procession  started  for  Mrs.  Tregaskis'  ball 
in  Portman  Square. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

WHILE   HOUSES  SLEEP 

As  two  hours  later  the  Kerquham  carriage  rolled  away 
from  Mrs.  Tregaskis'  house,  Paul  Carr  walked  slowly 
down  the  steps  with  his  light  overcoat  over  his  arm.  A 
small  group  of  pale-faced,  yawning  footmen  were  loung- 
ing against  the  pillars  and  railings,  and  a  few  carriages 
with  sleeping  horses  and  tired  coachmen  were  ranked 
close  to  the  square  railings.  As  he  stepped  onto  the 
pavement  a  hoarse-voiced  linkman  hailed  a  hansom, 
but  Paul  shook  his  head,  and  turning  sharply  to  the  left 
vanished  into  the  darkness.  He  felt  that  he  must  move, 
stretch  his  limbs,  and  exhale  in  deep  breaths  from  his 
heart  the  mingled  fumes  of  wine,  the  perfume  from 
women's  hair,  and  the  faint,  sickly  smell  of  dying  flow- 
ers. He  longed  to  drive  from  his  brain,  through  the 
medium  of  his  regularly  falling  feet,  the  swinging  meas- 
ure of  the  sensuous  string  music,  the  witless  talk  and 
aimless  laughter.  To  add  to  all  that  confusion,  the 
rattle  of  cab  wheels  and  the  tinkle  of  a  bell  would  be 
more  than  his  excited  nerves  could  bear.  He  felt  that 
he  must  walk. 

A  moment  later  he  was  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of 
the  brilliantly  lit  house,  where  silhouetted  figures  glided 
before  the  shining  windows,  and  where  the  long  balcony 
was  filled  with  whispering  couples.  It  was  the  stillest 
hour  of  all  the  twenty-four.  The  short  summer  night 
still  held  sway,  though  the  pallid  gleam  that  shone 

97 


98  THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

brightly  from  such  upper  windows  as  faced  the  east  her- 
alded the  quickly  coming  day. 

Paul  was  a  Londoner  born  and  bred,  but  as  he  reached 
Oxford  Street  an  overwhelming  sense  of  desolation  and 
loneliness  swept  over  him.  The  great  thoroughfare  was 
still  as  the  grave,  and  the  only  things  that  seemed  to  live 
were  the  endless  rows  of  gas  lamps  that  at  an  immeasur- 
able distance  met  in  a  tiny  point  before  fading  into  noth- 
ingness. Even  at  the  coffee  stall  that  twinkled  like  a 
constellation  before  the  Marble  Arch  all  was  still.  He 
felt  for  the  moment  as  if  he  were  the  only  waking  man 
in  the  whole  world. 

He  crossed  the  wide  road  leisurely,  finding  an  almost 
childish  attraction  in  the  fact  that  he  had  not  to  hurry. 
Audley  Street  was  deserted,  but  in  Grosvenor  Square 
another  large  party  was  breaking  up,  and  he  noticed 
how  haggard  and  drawn  the  women  looked  beneath  their 
powder  and  rouge,  as  they  passed  to  their  carriages,  for 
it  was  only  here  and  there  that  one  of  them  had  the  dis- 
cretion to  draw  a  film  of  lace  across  her  face  as  she 
emerged  into  the  merciless  light  of  the  coming  day.  In 
Mount  Street  and  Berkeley  Square  it  was  the  same,  and 
as  he  turned  into  Piccadilly  and  set  his  feet  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  own  rooms,  he  met  many  men  in  twos  and 
threes  sauntering  homewards  as  they  smoked  their  last 
cigars.  Ten  minutes  ago  he  had  fancied  that  all  London 
was  sleeping,  and  that  idea  had  soothed  him.  Now  it 
occurred  to  him  that  the  whole  city  had  been  dancing  all 
night,  and  the  reflection  irritated  him  and  chased  away 
such  physical  well-being  as  he  had  evolved  from  his 
walk,  bringing  back  to  him  in  a  flood  of  memory  all  the 
events  of  the  past  night. 

Spurred  by  his  own  thoughts,  he  turned  round,  and 
crossing  the  road,  walked  rapidly  down  St.  James'  Street. 


WHILE   HOUSES   SLEEP  99 

An  enforced  energy  of  thought  and  movement  swept 
over  him,  and  he  felt  that  his  rooms,  with  their  damask 
curtains  and  Persian  rugs,  pillowed  lounges  and  crowded 
palms,  would  suffocate  him.  He  must  get  out  into  the 
open  and  breathe.  He  would  go  straight  across  the  wide 
Horse  Guards  Parade  and  on  to  the  Embankment  to 
where  the  great  waterway  eternally  ebbed  and  flowed. 

It  seemed  at  first  almost  dark  on  the  Embankment; 
they  had  already  put  out  the  lights,  and  the  river  looked 
sullen  and  black  under  the  cold  grey  sky.  Involuntarily 
Paul  slipped  on  his  coat.  He  was  not  cold,  but  the 
impression  of  dreary  desolation  and  the  sad  murmur  of 
the  passing  waves  made  him  shudder.  On  the  seats  were 
huddled  shapeless  masses  of  humanity,  who  had  slept  and 
wakened,  cursed  and  slept  again  all  the  night  through. 
Here  and  there  some  one  had  been  lucky  enough  to  get 
a  seat  all  to  himself,  and  lay  at  full  length,  snoring  luxuri- 
ously. 

Paul  strolled  along  for  a  time,  then,  beneath  the 
shadows  of  two  great  hotels,  leaned  his  arms  on  the  low 
parapet  and  stared  into  the  rolling  stream.  Its  dark 
depths  revealed  to  him  all  the  events  of  the  past  few 
hours.  Again  he  saw  the  crush-room  at  the  opera  filled 
with  men  of  all  ages,  whose  talk  and  gossip  were  even 
more  spiteful  and  biting  than  the  tea-table  gabble  of  their 
wives  and  sisters.  Again  he  saw  the  long  supper-room 
at  the  Savoy,  with  its  myriad  lights  and  scores  of 
crowded  tables.  He  remembered  how  the  skirts  of  the 
lowest  had  flaunted  past  those  of  the  highest;  how  men 
in  company  with  the  painted  toy  of  an  hour  had  laughed 
and  nodded  across  the  room  at  well-born,  respectable 
women.  He  heard  again  the  clink  of  glasses,  the  shrill 
screams  of  laughter,  which  told  him  that  the  last  coarse 
story  had  been  enjoyed  by  an  eager  audience. 


100        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Then  his  introspection  narrowed,  and  he  saw  only  the 
table  at  which  he  had  sat  with  Rosamund.  He  remem- 
bered Laura's  behaviour  and  Honor's  talk  and  Lord  St. 
Ives'  face,  flushed  with  wine,  bent  down  almost  to  Mrs. 
Rivington's  stripped  shoulders.  He  recalled  Guy  Tre- 
vor's vapid  chatter  and  Dick  Charteris'  broad  innuendoes. 
He  caught  his  breath  at  that  last  memory,  when  he  saw 
once  more,  in  angry  fancy,  the  swift  wave  of  colour  that 
had  swept  over  Rosamund's  cheek  at  one  of  Dick's  most 
outrageous  remarks. 

And  then  the  pictures  faded,  and  the  lights  and  music 
died  down,  and  only  Rosamund's  face,  with  its  sweet 
mouth  and  great  starry  dark  eyes  gazing  at  him  from 
beneath  her  broad,  level  brows,  was  reflected  back  at 
him  from  the  rushing  tide,  which  was  now  turning  a 
sickly  grey  colour  under  the  silvery  heavens. 

"My  darling,  my  white  rose,  I  must  pluck  you  and 
take  you  away  from  all  this,  or  even  your  purity  will  be 
smirched.  I  must  see  your  uncle  at  once  and  ask  him 
to  announce  our  marriage.  Then  we  will  shake  the  dust 
and  the  soil  of  the  world — our  world — from  our  feet  and 
go  out  and  make  one  of  our  own." 

His  dreams  were  cut  short  by  an  insistent  hand-  on 
his  arm  and  an  incoherent  voice  that  babbled  meaning- 
less words  in  his  ear.  A  wretched  figure  in  flaunting 
rags  and  cheap  paint,  a  caricature  of  womanhood,  a  stain 
on  civilisation,  stood  at  his  side.  The  creature  swayed 
a  little,  for  she  was  not  sober,  and  whined  and  leered. 
Half  sick  with  disgust,  Paul  stepped  aside  quickly  from 
this  wretched  remnant  of  femininity,  and  roughly  bade 
her  go. 

"D you  for  a  mean  hound!  I  was  a  beauty  when 

you  were  in  your  cradle.  Twenty  years  ago  the  men  ran 
after  me.  Give  me  sixpence  for  a  cup  of  coffee."  „ 


WHILE  HOUSES  SLEEP  IOI 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  as  though  to  touch  him. 
Paul,  thrilling  with  horror,  turned  on  his  heel  and  moved 
away. 

"Oh,  my  God!  he  is  going  to  leave  me  to  starve," 
shrieked  the  woman  in  a  voice  that  rent  the  grey  air. 
She  made  an  unsteady  run  for  the  stone  steps  against 
which  the  tide  rippled  and  lapped.  Losing  her  footing 
she  lurched  and  slipped  with  loud  screams  almost  into 
the  heavy  stream.  Paul,  with  every  manly  instinct 
roused,  rushed  after  her  and  dragged  her,  soaked  and 
shrieking,  once  more  back  to  the  pavement.  Mad  with 
drink  and  fright,  she  began  to  fight  and  scream,  and  it 
was  all  that  Paul,  strong  man  as  he  was,  could  do  to 
hold  her  back. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  with  this  woman?"  said  a 
rough  voice. 

"Oh!  good  sir,  he  is  driving  me  to  starvation  and  the 
river." 

Paul  still  held  the  struggling  woman  by  both  her  arms, 
and  turned  his  head  to  the  policeman. 

"Nonsense!  I  do  not  know  her.  She  spoke  to  me 
and  then  tried  to  drown  herself." 

Another  policeman  came  up,  and  the  two  looked  very 
serious.  Such  odd  things  did  happen;  one  never  knew 
what  steps  these  gentlemen  would  not  take  to  get  rid  of 
a  woman  who  was  in  their  way. 

Meantime  the  wretched  creature  was  pretending  to 
faint,  and  was  hanging  with  all  her  weight  on  Paul's 
hands,  while  the  water  streaming  from  her  skirts  formed 
a  pool  about  his  feet.  A  few  tattered,  shadowy  figures 
loomed  up  in  the  vague  light  and  hung  round  and  won- 
dered audibly  what  "the  swell  had  been  a-doing  of." 
Among  these  Paul  saw  a  man  who  was  better  dressed 
than  the  others,  though  he  was  distinctly  frayed  about 


102        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

the  wrists  and  ankles.  He  was  small  and  had  a  mean 
sallow  face,  with  red  eyes  which  looked  as  though  they 
never  rested  or  slept.  Paul  noticed  him  more  particu- 
larly because  he  pushed  his  way  so  aggressively  through 
the  throng  and  stood  so  very  closely  behind  the  two 
policemen.  He  pulled  out  a  little  book  and  began  to 
scribble  in  it  fast,  looking  first  at  Paul  and  then  at  the 
huddled-up,  bedraggled  woman. 

"Here!  can't  you  take  her?"  said  Paul  to  one  of  the 
policemen.  "She's  only  pretending  to  be  ill.  Get  an 
ambulance." 

"That's  all  very  well,  sir,"  replied  one  of  the  men, 
"but  we  wants  to  know  a  little  more  about  this  before 
we  takes  her  off  your  hands."  And  the  slowly  gather- 
ing crowd  of  tatterdemalions  applauded  the  law,  and 
cried,  "That's  it,  copper,  don't  you  let  him  go!" 

Paul  looked  at  the  faces  of  the  people  about  him. 
They  were  all  low  and  debased,  the  very  scum  of  the 
earth.  He  knew  that  the  very  fact  of  his  being  a  gen- 
tleman was  against  him  in  their  eyes,  and  that  he  would 
get  neither  support  nor  sympathy  from  any  of  such  a 
crew.  Suddenly  a  voice  behind  him  spoke,  a  voice 
whose  ringing  tones  he  seemed  to  know,  and  that  brought 
back  to  him  memories  of  the  happiest  years  of  his  life. 

"What!  is  that  you  again,  Kate  Gray?  Now,  you  are 
only  malingering,  you  know,  unless  you  are  too  drunk  to 
move.  Constable,  you  ought  to  know  th'is  woman. 
Take  her  to  the  station  at  once." 

The  two  policemen  looked  a  little  sheepish,  and 
advancing,  relieved  Paul  of  the  most  unpleasant  burden. 
Yet  to  show  that  they  still  had  some  independence,  and 
to  keep  up  their  character  with  the  crowd  that  thronged 
around,  one  of  them  said: 

"All   right,  Father,  we'll   take  your  word  for  it,  but 


WHILE  HOUSES  SLEEP  103 

the  gentleman  must  come  with  us  and  give  his  name  and 
address." 

As  though  by  magic  an  ambulance  was  fetched  and 
the  wretched  woman  flung  upon  it,  and  then  Paul  found 
himself  the  center  of  a  shuffling,  ragged,  evil-smelling 
crowd,  walking  up  through  the  grey  dawn  to  Bow  Street 
police  station.  He  had  tried  for  one  brief  moment  to 
slip  away  unobserved,  but  the  people  muttered  angrily, 
and  the  man  whose  voice  he  seemed  to  know  had  touched 
him  on  the  arm  and  said: 

"Of  course,  you  know  nothing  of  this  unfortunate 
creature,  but  you  had  better  come." 

As  they  left  the  Embankment  behind  them  and 
walked  up  towards  the  Strand,  Paul  looked  at  the  man 
who  paced  by  his  side.  He  was  of  middle  height,  square 
and  sturdy  in  build,  with  a  strong,  plain  face  that  was 
lit  with  kindly  eyes,  and  a  firm  mouth  that  indicated  a 
sense  of  humour.  He  wore  the  severely  cut  broadcloth 
suit  of  a  priest,  while  the  plain  band  of  the  Roman  collar 
clearly  indicated  his  form  of  faith.  His  hat  was  one  of 
soft  felt,  and  his  appearance  in  no  way  remarkable.  As 
Paul  looked  down  from  his  superior  height,  the  other 
looked  up,  and  then  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"Why,  you  are  Paul  Carr!" 

And  Paul  held  out  his  hand  and  cried,  "And  you  are 
Philip  Steyne!" 

"I  was.      I  am  Father  Gregory  now." 

Paul  looked  him  up  and  down,  and  the  Father's  stern 
mouth  melting  into  a  smile,  said: 

"Yes!  I  suppose  it  was  the  outcome  of  the  Oxford 
movement.  Do  you  remember  how  w?  used  to  argue 
when  we  were  up  there  together?  But  four  years  ago  I 
entered  on  my  novitiate,  and  I  have  been  a  monk  for 
nearly  three  now." 


104        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Fancy  you  doing  such  a  thing  as  that!" 

The  other  man  laughed  a  little. 

"Ah!  my  friend,  we  never  know  from  year  to  year 
where  we  may  be  or  what  we  may  become.  When  we 
were  in  the  playing  fields  at  Eton  and  rowing  in  our  col- 
lege eight  at  Oxford  that  last  term  that  we  were  'up,' 
we  never  thought  we  should  meet  again  like  this." 

They  were  in  Wellington  Street  now,  and  the  great 
market  on  their  left  was  alive  with  carts  and  the  tramp 
of  straining  horses'  feet  and  echoing  the  oaths  of  rough 
men  lifting  enormous  weights,  and  the  shrill  cries  of  the 
flower  girls  of  London,  who  had  come  to  buy  their  daily 
stock.  It  was  almost  day,  and  under  the  high,  sharp 
light  that  grew  and  quickened  every  moment,  the 
trampled  refuse  of  the  vegetables,  the  rank  mud  and  the 
toiling  crowd,  looked  very  unlovely  in  Paul's  eyes.  The 
people  about  scarcely  took  any  notice  of  the  little  pro- 
cession. At  that  time  in  the  morning  such  things  as  a 
drunken  woman,  or  a  man  hurt  in  a  street  brawl,  were 
very  common  sights.  Besides,  they  were  a  hard-working 
set,  these  market  porters;  their  pay  was  not  large,  and 
they  had  to  look  out  for  a  job,  so  beyond  laughing  a  bit 
at  the  "swell"  and  exchanging  a  few  coarse  remarks 
about  the  woman  on  the  ambulance,  they  took  no  notice. 

It  was  almost  a  relief  to  Paul  to  leave  that  noisy, 
dirty  crowd  behind  and  step  into  the  clean,  whitewashed, 
quiet  precincts  of  the  police  station.  There  the  men  on 
duty  were  all  spick  and  span  to  a  button,  alert  and  civil. 
It  was  all  over  in  a  few  minutes.  The  woman  was  taken 
to  the  cells,  and  some  one  at  a  high  wooden  desk  wrote 
down  Paul's  name  and  address.  As  he  gave  it,  he  was 
again  unpleasantly  conscious  of  the  sallow-faced,  shabby 
man  with  the  notebook.  He  wondered  why  he,  out  of 
all  the  crowd,  had  succeeded  in  getting  into  the  police 


WHILE  HOUSES  SLEEP  105 

station,  and  why,  when  the  superintendent  laid  down  his 
pen,  the  shabby  man  walked  up  to  the  big  book,  in  which 
the  entry  had  just  been  written,  and  began  to  make 
notes  with  a  very  stumpy  pencil  on  a  dirty  piece  of  paper. 
Paul  had  the  uncomfortable  sensation  of  being  watched, 
but  when  Father  Gregory's  name  was  also  taken  and 
they  were  both  told  to  return  to  the  police  court  at  half- 
past  ten  o'clock,  he  was  free  to  go. 

Almost  unknowingly  he  retraced  his  steps  back  to  the 
Embankment.  The  whole  affair  had  been  so  disagree- 
able, so  sudden,  he  had  scarcely  realised  it,  and  was  only 
conscious  that  he  had  touched  something  unclean.  He 
walked  rapidly  on  until  he  was  again  in  sight  of  the  river, 
and  not  until  then  was  he  fully  aware  that  Father  Greg- 
ory had  kept  pace  with  him  and  was  by  his  side.  The 
sun  was  now  up,  and  the  river  danced  and  twinkled  like 
a  thousand  diamonds  in  the  new  day.  The  pile  of  fac- 
tories on  the  opposite  side,  faintly  veiled  on  the  right 
and  left  by  the  pale  morning  mist,  looked  as  fair  and  as 
picturesque  as  a  row  of  palazzi  on  a  Venetian  canal. 
The  trees  on  the  Embankment  were  rustling  in  the  fresh 
morning  air,  and  the  birds  singing  as  though  it  were  the 
country.  Paul  unfastened  his  coat  and  flung  himself  on 
a  seat.  They  were  all  empty  now,  these  same  wooden 
beds,  for  their  nightly  occupants  had  gone  into  the  by- 
ways of  the  town  to  pick  up  the  scraps  and  refuse  that 
were  flung  out  into  the  streets  at  cleaning  time. 

For  some  little  while  the  two  men  sat  silent.  Father 
Gregory's  short,  strong  fingers  slipped  over  the  beads 
of  his  rosary  and  his  lips  moved  in  prayer.  Paul  could 
only  look  about  him  and  try  and  shake  from  his  brain 
the  effects  of  what  seemed  a  hideous  dream.  By-and- 
bye,  the  priest  let  his  beads  fall  with  a  little  clatter  at 
his  side. 


106        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"You  are  taking  this  business  very  much  to  heart," 
he  murmured.  "It  is  nothing;  the  woman  is  well 
known  to  the  police." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Paul,  shaking  himself 
out  of  his  reverie.  "But  it  is  dreadful  to  know  that  such 
creatures  exist." 

Father  Gregory  looked  a  little  surprised.  He  had 
never,  in  days  gone  by,  considered  Paul  as  being  more 
innocent  or  more  ascetic  than  the  average  clean-minded, 
healthy  young  man. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said.  "I  do  not  under- 
stand." 

"Nor  do  I,"  said  Paul.  "I  cannot  exactly  explain 
what  I  mean,  but  just  lately  I  have  been  living  in  a  world 
of  my  own  making  with  another  woman;  a  girl  who  is  so 
pure,  so  spotless,  so  genuine  and  true,  that  even  her  own 
belongings  and  the  people  she  moves  among  seem 
scarcely  worthy  of  her.  I  was  thinking  of  her,  almost 
imagining  she  was  by  my  side  when  that  wretched 
creature  came  up  and  laid  her  hand  upon  my  arm."  He 
brushed  his  coat  sleeve  as  though  some  stain  remained 
there. 

"You  are  nervous  and  overwrought,"  said  Father 
Gregory  in  his  quiet,  kind  voice.  "It  is  not  like  you  to 
get  hysterical  and  fanciful  over  things,  even  for  a  woman 
you  love." 

Paul  pulled  himself  together,  and  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"You  are  quite  right,  Philip.  Ah!  I  beg  your  par- 
don; the  old  name  will  come  back,  you  know.  But  this 
London  life  does  not  agree  with  me.  I  hate  it  from  the 
bottom  of  my  soul  and  so  does  she.  When  we  are  mar- 
ried we  are  going  to  live  in  the  country." 

A  look  of  tender  interest  mingled  with  a  sad  wonder 
filled  the  priest's  eyes,  but  he  spoke  kindly. 


WHILE  HOUSES  SLEEP  107 

"So  you  are  going  to  be  married?  Next  to  religion, 
a  good  wife  is  the  best  gift  that  God  has  to  bestow  on 
man." 

Then  they  fell  to  talking  in  detached  sentences,  Paul 
asking  questions,  and  Father  Gregory  recalling  old  times. 
One  thing  led  to  another,  and  they  spoke  of  nothing 
long.  It  was  a  kind  of  resumt  of  their  lives,  which 
opened  up  much  that  was  pleasant  and  good,  and  noth- 
ing that  was  regrettable  and  sad. 

Behind  them,  as  they  sat  and  talked,  London  stirred 
itself  and  waked  to  full  life.  Heavy  carts  and  vans 
thundered  down  the  roadway,  and  often  with  their  rattle 
drowned  the  low  question  and  answer.  Home-going 
cabs  crept  lazily  along,  and  lumbering  omnibuses  brought 
their  first  loads  of  workers  from  the  pleasant  suburbs 
into  the  great  seething  city.  With  a  snort  and  a  splash, 
the  early  morning  boat  bustled  past,  and  the  barges  that 
had  been  moored  like  great  sleeping  whales  against  the 
opposite  wharfs  all  night  slipped  slowly  out  into  the 
stream.  Factory  women,  with  flaunting  feathers  and 
clean  white  aprons,  passed  chattering  by,  and  flower 
girls  from  the  market,  with  thick  shawls  tied  across  their 
broad  shoulders,  and  short,  full  skirts  pinned  up  well 
over  the  tops  of  their  rough  boots,  came  down  to  the 
river's  edge  to  arrange  their  fragrant  wares  and  sort 
them  out  to  the  best  advantage.  With  hands  in  pockets 
and  cloth  caps  tipped  on  the  back  of  their  heads,  office 
boys  sauntered  by.  Some  who  had  lain  in  bed  late  were 
eating  their  breakfasts  as  they  came.  Others  who  had 
much  work  to  do  were  whistling  shrilly  the  latest  comic 
songs  as  they  stepped  out.  From  Big  Ben  eight  o'clock 
throbbed  out  on  the  warm  morning  air.  Across  the 
bridge  that  joins  Charing  Cross  to  the  Surrey  side 
the  first  Continental  train,  with  a  shrill  shriek,  steamed 


io8        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

slowly  out.  Paul  pulled  his  coat  across  his  evening 
dress  once  more  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"It  is  late;  I  must  get  back." 

Father  Gregory  rose,  too. 

"You  will  come  and  see  me  then,"  he  said,  holding 
out  his  hand.  "Our  meeting  has  been  very  strange,  but 
our  talk  has  been  very  pleasant.  Mine  is  a  poor  place, 
for  I  live  among  poor" people;  but  you  will  come?" 

"I  will  indeed;  I  promise,"  said  Paul. 

The  Father  turned  and  walked  citywards,  and  Paul, 
hailing  a  passing  hansom,  sprang  into  it  and  was  driven 
back  to  his  chambers  in  Piccadilly. 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE   MAGISTRATE   DISPOSES 

MRS.  KERQUHAM  had  gone  with  Honor  and  Rosamund 
to  call  on  Mrs.  Rivington.  It  had  been  no  motive  of 
friendship  that  had  induced  her  to  take  this  step,  but 
rather  of  policy.  She  entirely  disapproved  of  the  lady 
and  of  her  way  of  life,  but  Lord  St.  Ives'  pointed  atten- 
tions to  her  on  the  previous  evening  had  made  her  think 
that  it  might  be  as  well  to  make  friends  with  the  mam- 
mon of  unrighteousness. 

Mrs.  Kerquham  was  quite  aware  of  Paul's  admiration 
for  her  niece,  but  she  still  clung  to  the  hope  that  matters 
in  that  quarter  would  not  come  to  a  head.  She  did  not 
disguise  from  herself  that  Paul  Carr,  with  his  good  social 
position  and  his  very  satisfactory  balance  at  the  bankers, 
was  a  suitable  match  for  the  penniless  orphan  girl  of 
whom  she  had  had  the  bringing  up.  But  like  many 
women  of  even  good  birth,  a  title  dazzled  her,  and  hav- 
ing once  realised  that  neither  of  her  daughters  would 
ever  have  the  faintest  chance  of  becoming  Countess  of 
St.  Ives,  she  had  seized  eagerly  on  such  indications  as 
had  pointed  to  his  lordship's  admiration  for  Rosamund. 
A  few  months  ago  she  would  have  accepted  Paul  for 
Rosamund  with  gladness,  but  she  had  set  her  heart 
lately  on  her  niece's  becoming  a  great  lady,  and  she 
meant  to  cling  to  that  hope  and  work  to  that  end  until 
the  very  hour  struck  that  might  transform  Miss  Keith 
into  Mrs.  Carr. 

109 


110        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMVND  KEITH 

As  regards  Lord  St.  Ives'  attentions  to  the  gay 
widow,  Mrs.  Rivington,  she  was  not  much  troubled.  She 
had  seen  too  much  of  men  and  manners  not  to  know 
their  little  ways,  and  she  felt  that  if  the  lady  in  question 
had  any  influence  over  the  earl  at  all,  it  was  better  to 
have  it  exercised  for  than  against  her  cherished  plan.  So 
she  had  gone  to  call  at  the  elaborately  decorated,  over- 
draped,  semi-darkened  house  in  Stanhope  Gardens  where 
Mrs.  Rivington  held  her  court,  and  to  make  the  visit 
less  pointed,  she  had  taken  the  two  girls  with  her. 

Tea,  out  of  fragile  cups  of  jewelled  Sevres,  accom- 
panied by  a  large  assortment  of  appetising  sandwiches  and 
cakes,  had  just  been  served.  The  conversation  had  not 
been  of  the  most  brilliant.  Mrs.  Kerquham  had  been 
all  the  time  trying  to  find  out  exactly  on  what  terms  Mrs. 
Rivington  was  with  Lord  St.  Ives.  Rosamund,  who, 
with  her  customary  straightforwardness,  frankly  disap- 
proved of  the  lady,  sat  with  folded  hands  and  lowered 
eyelids,  on  a  high  chair  near  the  open  window.  Honor, 
filled  with  the  disagreeable  desire  to  find  out  how  such  a 
woman  lived,  had  been  too  busy  staring  about  the  room 
and  making  a  mental  inventory  of  its  luxurious  contents 
to  say  much.  Mrs.  Rivington,  all  floating  laces  and 
pale  pink  ribbons,  golden  curls  and  a  strong  atmosphere 
of  perfume,  had  been  smothering  her  yawns  and  wonder- 
ing why  on  earth  such  a  dull  set  of  people  should  come 
to  see  her. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Miss  Glossop,  a  mid- 
dle-aged lady,  much  over-dressed  and  flushed  with 
excitement,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Trevor,  all  mincing 
and  mannerisms,  came  into  the  room.  There  were 
greetings  all  round,  and  then  Miss  Glossop  cut  across 
the  conversation  with  a  loud-voiced,  "Have  you  heard 
the  news?" 


THE  MAGISTRATE  DISPOSES  HI 

Mr.  Trevor,  looking  portentously  solemn,  drew  a 
half-penny  evening  paper  from  the  immaculate  folds  of 
his  frock-coat. 

"Quite  too  awful,  you  know;  could  not  have  believed 
it  myself;  always  thought  Carr  was  the  straightest  fellow 
in  the  town.  But  there — you  never  know  your  luck." 

As  he  slowly  unfolded  the  paper,  Miss  Glossop  cried 
eagerly:  "Yes,  it's  quite  too  shocking!  Really,  to  think 
that  one  knows  a  man  like  that;  that  one  met  him  only 
last  night!  Well,  it  will  give  us  all  something  to  talk 
about  at  any  rate  for  a  few  days,"  and  she  smacked  her 
lips  as  though  she  had  a  dainty  morsel  between  them. 

"Mr.  Carr?  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  him?" 
said  Mrs.  Rivington,  roused  into  some  semblance  of 
wakefulness.  "Is  not  he  that  awfully  nice-looking  young 
fellow  who  was  supping  with  us  last  night,  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham?  He  is  a  great  friend  of  yours,  isn't  he?  People 
are  saying  so." 

Her  eyes  shot  one  little  glance  towards  Rosamund, 
who  still  sat  near  the  window  with  lowered  lids  and 
closed  mouth,  but  who,  beneath  her  mask  of  indiffer- 
ence, was  all  a-quiver  to  know  what  they  meant.  Mrs. 
Kerquham  drew  herself  up  very  stiffly  before  she 
answered.  There  was  evidently  something  wrong  about 
Mr.  Carr,  and  she  did  not  intend  to  commit  herself  by  an 
excessive  profession  of  friendship  before  Mrs.  Rivington 
and  Miss  Glossop. 

"We  do  know  Mr.  Carr,"  she  said,  coldly.  "But  in 
town  one  comes  across  so  many  people,  and  life  here  is 
always  such  a  bustle,  that  one  has  not  always  the  time  to 
discriminate  between  the  good  and  the  bad  as  one  might 
wish." 

"Well,  just  listen  to  this!"  said  Guy  Trevor  in  his 
high  voice. 


113         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Honor  pulled  her  chair  a  little  nearer  into  the  circle. 
Rosamund  did  not  move,  but  her  fingers  clenched  them- 
selves tightly  in  her  lap.  Then,  amid  many  exclamations 
and  interjections,  with  comments  of  his  own,  and  remarks 
from  the  ladies  round  him,  Mr.  Trevor  read  out  a  highly- 
coloured  report  of  Paul  Carr's  appearance  at  Bow  Street 
police  court  that  morning,  when  he  had  given  evidence 
as  to  the  miserable  affair  on  the  Embankment  at  early 
dawn. 

"Was  it  attempted  murder  or  suicide?"  burst  in  Miss 
Glossop. 

"Oh!  I  have  not  done  yet,"  said  Mr.  Trevor,  waving 
her  to  silence  with  his  hand.  Then  he  went  on  to  read 
the  magistrate's  comments  on  the  case;  and  on  the  sin- 
gularity of  a  man  of  good  position  being  on  a  place  like 
the  Embankment  with  such  a  wretched  creature  as  stood 
in  the  dock,  at  any  hour  of  the  twenty-four.  Father 
Gregory's  few  words  were  put  aside  and  the  surmises  of 
the  police  as  to  the  suspiciousness  of  the  whole  business 
were  emphasised.  The  affair  ended  in  Paul's  being 
reprimanded  for  being  mixed  up  in  bad  company,  and 
being  warned  to  be  more  careful  for  the  future.  The 
woman  was  sent  to  the  workhouse. 

Mr.  Trevor  dropped  the  paper  on  his  knees,  and 
looked  round  at  his  audience.  He  felt  he  had  made 
quite  a  sensation.  For  a  brief  moment  silence  reigned, 
and  then  in  high,  shrill  argument  their  voices  rose.  In 
Rosamund's  ears  they  sounded  like  the  waves  of  the  sea. 
Her  one  prayer  all  the  time  was  that  she  should  not 
move  or  cry  out  or  faint.  She  prayed  as  she  had  never 
prayed  before  that  she  might  not  make  an  exhibition  of 
herself.  She  did  not  even  dare  to  lean  forward  to  catch 
the  faint  breeze  that  blew  in  at  the  window  for  fear  of 
attracting  attention,  for  she  knew  that  her  face  was 


THE  MAGISTRATE  DISPOSES  113 

grey  and  her  mouth  drawn  with  agony.  Presently  she 
was  able  to  open  her  eyes.  The  trees  outside  in  the 
square  swam  like  a  green  sea  before  her  imperfect  vision, 
but  with  returning  consciousness  came  the  sharpest  pain 
of  all.  What  was  this  that  they  were  saying?  That  Paul, 
her  lover,  her  affianced  husband,  was  a  man  of  the  low- 
est tastes;  that  he  consorted  with  the  scum  of  the  earth; 
that  he  had  left  her  side,  only  that  morning,  to  hold 
converse  with  the  vilest  outcast  that  man  could  have 
made  of  woman;  that  he  had  driven  her  to  attempt  sui- 
cide, or — that  he  had  tried  himself  to  make  away  with 
his  shame!  They  went  over  and  over  the  same  subject, 
turning  it  this  way  and  that,  rolling  it  round  their 
tongues,  and  savouring  it  in  their  mouths. 

Rosamund  would  not  look  towards  them,  but  she 
knew  exactly  how  severe  an  expression  Mrs.  Kerquham 
was  wearing,  and  how  Honor's  narrow,  hard  mouth  was 
screwed  together  in  shrewish  delight.  She  caught  a  few 
of  Mrs.  Rivington's  coarse  suggestions  and  of  Mr. 
Trevor's  feeble  excuses  for  the  weaknesses  of  mankind, 
which  were  worse  than  the  most  outspoken  accusations. 
She  heard  Miss  Glossop,  the  old  maid  to  whom  nothing 
was  sacred,  tearing  Paul's  reputation  to  rags,  and  accus- 
ing him  of  every  crime  in  the  calendar.  Yet  she  bore  it 
all,  and  with  it  that  deadly  sick  feeling,  that  awful 
blackness,  that  sound  of  many  waters  in  her  ears,  and 
fought  as  she  had  never  fought  before  to  keep  her  senses. 

It  was  Honor's  voice — high  and  sneering — that  pierced 
the  armour  of  her  self-control  at  last. 

"Well!  the  knowledge  that  Carr  is  this  kind  of  man 
ought  to  effectually  put  a  stop  to  his  dangling  round  one 
person  whom  we  all  know.  That's  to  say,  if  she  has  a 
spark  of  pride  or  decency  about  her." 

Rosamund — forgotten,    or  at    least   regarded   as   an 


114        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

indifferent  listener — started  to  her  feet,  and  with  ashen 
face  and  a  voice  shaking  with  passionate  emotion,  cried, 
"Honor!  how  can  you  so  insult  me?" 

The  women  turned  in  their  seats,  and  Mr.  Trevor 
rising,  withdrew  behind  the  shelter  of  Miss  Glossop's 
ample  shoulders. 

"Rosamund!"  cried  Mrs.  Kerquham  in  expostulatory 
tones.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  know — Aunt  Margot — and  so  does  Honor — and 
all  of  you.  You  all  know  that  Mr.  Carr — of  whom  you 
have  been  saying  such  shameful  things,  and  who  is  not 
here  to  defend  himself — loves  me.  Two  nights  ago — " 
her  voice  broke,  but  she  went  bravely  on — "the  other 
night  he  told  me  so — and  asked  me  to  be  his  wife." 

"Miss  Keith!" 

"Rosamund!     Be  careful  what  you  say." 

"I  am  being  careful,  Aunt  Margot.  I  only  want  to 
tell  you  all  that  I  accepted  Mr.  Carr's  offer  of  marriage — 
and  that  therefore  I  hold  myself  engaged  to  him  in  the 
face  of  every  misfortune  or  shame  that  may  come  upon 
him.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Rivington.  I  will  walk  home, 
aunt!"  She  bowed  coldly  as  she  left  the  room. 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Mrs.  Kerquham,  starting  to 
say  a  hurried  good-bye.  "What  a  terrible  thing." 

"But  Mr.  Carr's  very  rich,"  drawled  Mrs.  Rivington, 
who  was  quite  amused  by  such  a  display  of  emotion. 

"What  shall  you  really  do  about  the  engagement?" 
asked  Miss  Glossop,  whose  curiosity  at  times  over- 
stepped the  bounds  of  good  manners. 

Mrs.  Kerquham  hesitated  for  a  brief  space.  Precipi- 
tation might  ruin  everything.  Lord  St.  Ives  and  Paul 
Carr  might  both  be  lost  together. 

"I  shall  wait  and  see  what  other  people  think,"  she 
said  at  length  as  she  hurried  from  the  room. 


THE  MAGISTRATE  DISPOSES  115 

"Ha!  you  are  always  so  clever,"  said  Mr.  Trevor,  in 
his  most  flattering  tones.  But  Miss  Glossop  rather 
spoiled  his  remark  by  adding  sharply  that  "any  fool  could 
have  seen  that." 

Downstairs  on  the  doorstep  Rosamund  was  standing, 
white  and  trembling. 

A  smile  of  amusement  curved  Honor's  thin  lips  as  she 
passed  her  cousin  and  got  into  the  carriage.  Mrs.  Ker- 
quham  looked  at  her  niece.  She  was  a  woman  who  dis- 
liked having  her  plans  upset,  neither  did  she  approve  of 
the  girl's  being  seen  on  foot  in  the  streets  in  the  after- 
noon, but  there  was  a  look  in  Rosamund's  eyes,  a  defiant 
misery  in  the  poise  of  her  head,  that  warned  her  it  would 
be  wiser  for  the  moment  to  bow  to  the  girl's  expressed 
wish. 

"My  dear,  if  you  care  to  walk  home,  do  so.  But  do 
not  go  fast;  it  is  still  very  warm.  James,  give  Miss 
Keith  her  parasol." 

Still  with  her  brain  on  fire  and  her  heart  stone  cold, 
Rosamund  watched  her  aunt  and  cousin  drive  away,  and 
it  was  only  by  degrees  that  she  became  conscious  that 
the  servant  within  the  house  was  still  holding  the  door 
open,  and  evidently  waiting  for  her  to  walk  away.  Very 
slowly  she  went  down  the  steps,  having  to  feel  for  each 
one  before  she  set  her  foot  upon  it.  As  she  reached  the 
pavement,  the  door  was  shut  with  a  clang  behind  her, 
and  she  turned  up  the  square  towards  the  Cromwell 
Road. 

Mrs.  Kerquham  was  right;  the  afternoon  was 
intensely  hot,  and  the  streets  were  empty,  save  for  a  few 
carriages  filled  with  ladies  paying  their  duty  calls.  She 
wondered  what  they  were  all  talking  about;  whether 
they  knew.  For  fear  that  some  one  should  recognise  her 
and  stop  her,  she  put  up  her  parasol  and  held  it  closely 


Il6         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

before  her  face.  As  the  action  of  walking  steadied  her 
senses,  a  mad  desire  to  know  the  truth  came  upon  her. 
She  had  only  up  to  now  heard  the  interrupted  reading 
from  the  newspaper,  which  had  been  so  interlarded  with 
comments  and  suppositions  and  assertions  from  Miss 
Glossop  and  Mrs.  Rivington  that  she  had  gathered  noth- 
ing more  than  that  some  hideous  trouble  had  befallen 
her  beloved.  She  would  stop  at  the  station  in  Glouces- 
ter Road  and  buy  a  paper;  then  perhaps  she  might  get 
a  little  nearer  to  the  truth.  Intent  on  doing  so,  she 
slipped  her  hand  into  her  pocket,  but  found  she  had  no 
purse  with  her.  It  was  a  small  contretemps,  but  it  wrung 
her  over-wrought  nerves,  and  for  the  first  time  her 
mouth  began  to  quiver  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
She  forced  them  back,  however,  and  walked  on,  trying 
to  school  herself  into  the  philosophical  reasoning  that  as 
she  had  borne  so  much  she  could  bear  a  little  more.  Up 
in  the  High  Street  the  newspaper  boys  were  flaunting 
placards,  across  which  was  printed  in  thick,  black  let- 
ters: "Serious  scandal  in  the  West  End.  Allegations 
against  a  well-known  gentleman." 

The  fighting  instinct  was  roused  in  her  again,  even  as 
Honor's  words  had  stirred  it,  and  she  could  have  torn 
the  papers  to  shreds.  She  felt  the  whole  thing  must  be 
a  mistake,  if  not  a  lie.  Paul,  with  his  high-minded 
notions,  his  particularity — nay,  his  fastidiousness  about 
women — could  never  have  had  any  traffic  with  the 
wretched  creature,  who,  according  to  what  Guy  Trevor 
had  read,  had  appeared  in  the  dock  as  a  mere  besotted 
bundle  of  rags.  Nothing  would  ever  persuade  her  that, 
except  for  motives  of  charity  or  kindness,  he  could  ever 
speak  to  such  a  wreck  of  womanhood.  The  papers 
always  made  the  worst  of  things,  and  she  kept  telling 
herself  that  he  would  be  able  to  explain  it  all  away.  Yet 


THE  MAGISTRATE  DISPOSES  117 

not  to  her!  God  forbid  that  she  should  ask  for  any 
explanation — that  she  should  insult  him  with  even  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt.  But  in  the  midst  of  all  her  personal 
grief,  she  remembered  that  there  would  be  others  who 
might  not  have  the  same  faith  in  him  that  she  herself 
held.  To  her  it  could  make  no  difference  whether  he 
had  done  anything  or  whether  he  had  done  nothing.  He 
must  always  be  the  best,  the  truest-hearted,  the  most 
noble  man  she  had  ever  met.  The  man  to  whom  she  had 
given  her  love;  the  man  she  had  promised  to  marry. 
She  would  have  to  fight  his  battles.  She  felt  that,  and 
the  sense  of  coming  war  roused  her  a  little  and  drove 
the  blood  into  her  clay-cold  cheeks,  and  set  her  walking 
up  the  hill  with  a  freer  step.  Yes,  she  would  fight  for 
him  to  the  last,  and  stand  by  him.  Nothing  would 
change  her  opinion  of  him,  and  she  was  angry  with  her- 
self that  she  even  remembered  what  had  been  said  of 
him,  and  determined  to  free  her  mind  from  the  calumnies 
and  insinuations  that  even  in  her  half-fainting  condi- 
tion had  crept  into  her  ears  and  found  lodging  in  her 
brain. 

But  as  she  rang  the  bell  at  "The  Hurst"  a  sense  of 
shame,  as  though  she  had  done  wrong,  flowed  over  her 
once  more.  She  imagined  that  the  servant  who  opened 
the  door  looked  sympathetically  at  her,  and  she  flushed 
to  the  roots  of  her  hair  as  she  darted  past  the  man  and 
up  the  first  flight  of  stairs. 

Once  there,  she  paused  and  hung  over  the  low  balus- 
trade. She  would  ask  if  her  aunt  had  returned  or  if  her 
uncle  were  in  the  studio.  Would  it  be  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  doubt  on  her  part  if  she  went  to  them  and  asked 
their  advice,  or  should  she  proudly  ignore  the  whole  sub- 
ject and  regard  it  as  though  it  had  never  been?  With 
her  hands  still  upon  the  oaken  rail  she  stood,  torn  again 


IlS         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

by  a  thousand  emotions,  turning  hot  and  cold,  filled  with 
grief  one  moment,  and  proudly  defiant  of  the  world  the 
next. 

The  door  bell  rang  sharply,  and  a  knock  she  knew  so 
well  followed  it.  Her  heart  leaped  to  her  throat,  for  she 
knew  it  was  he.  She  heard  the  door  open  and  Paul's 
voice  ask  for  Mr.  Kerquham.  Was  it  fancy  that  she 
thought  it  was  a  little  anxious?  Before  the  echo  of  his 
words  had  died  in  the  hall,  the  door  of  the  long  library 
opened  sharply,  and  she  heard  her  aunt  say  in  loud,  clear 
tones: 

"Will  you  tell  Mr.  Carr  that  Mr.  Kerquham  is  at 
home,  but  cannot  see  him?" 

The  hall  door  was  shut,  and  Rosamund,  writhing  as 
though  she  had  been  struck  by  the  insult  that  had  been 
hurled  at  her  lover,  staggered  to  her  room. 


CHAPTER   X 

CHARITY 

PAUL  CARR  was  scarcely  surprised  at  what  had  happened 
at  "  The  Hurst  "  that  afternoon.  His  first  astonishment  at 
finding  the  events  of  the  early  morning  so  magnified  and 
distorted  had  seemed  to  deaden  all  other  feeling  within 
him.  He  had  vaguely  wondered,  through  the  luncheon 
hour  at  his  own  rooms,  why  the  police  had  insinuated 
what  they  did;  why  Father  Gregory's  evidence  had  been 
put  aside,  and  why  he  had  been  so  roughly  warned 
against  consorting  with  bad  characters.  It  never  struck 
him  that  the  facts  of  his  being  a  gentleman  of  good 
birth  and  position  were  dead  against  him  in  the  little 
republic  that  forms  the  floating  population  of  a  police 
court. 

It  was  not  until  a  man  he  knew  brought  him  one  of 
the  evening  papers  that  he  realised  that  this  affair  was 
going  to  prove  troublesome,  and  when  an  hour  or  two 
later  notes  of  half  insulting  sympathy  and  insinuating 
condolence  reached  him,  he  awoke  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  better  go  and  see  Rosamund's  uncle.  That  she  her- 
self would  require  any  explanation  never  occurred  to 
him,  but  he  had  all  a  young  man's  respect  for  the  feel- 
ings of  older  people  than  himself,  and  he  remembered 
that  though  Mr.  Kerquham  had  lived  his  life  in  the 
world,  he  had  the  blood  of  a  Puritan  family  in  his  veins, 
and  Mrs.  Kerquham,  with  her  ineradically  narrow  views, 
at  his  side. 

119 


120        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

So  he  started  for  Campden  Hill,  where  the  repulse  he 
met  showed  him  that  already  the  poison  had  begun  to 
work  against  him.  He  jumped  into  his  cab  and  was 
driven  back  to  his  rooms,  where  he  sat  down  and  wrote 
two  long  letters,  one  to  Rosamund  and  the  other  to  Mr. 
Kerquham.  After  they  were  finished,  an  unusual  curi- 
osity drove  him  to  send  out  for  an  evening  paper.  What 
he  read  there  seemed  to  alter  the  situation,  and  he 
destroyed  the  letters  he  had  written.  Things  were  going 
to  be  more  serious  than  he  imagined.  Of  course  it  was 
all  nonsense;  it  would  only  be  a  nine  days'  wonder  even 
if  it  attained  to  that;  but  meanwhile  he  must  write  noth- 
ing hastily,  and  had  better  go  down  to  the  club  and  get 
his  dinner  before  going  on  to  Lady  Scarsdale's  reception, 
where  he  should  meet  Rosamund  and  where  he  could 
better  speak  what  he  had  to  say. 

He  was  dressed  and  running  downstairs  to  his 
brougham  when  a  telegram  was  put  into  his  hand.  It 
was  from  Lady  Scarsdale,  "Regret  my  reception  post- 
poned." He  stuffed  it  into  his  pocket,  feeling  vaguely 
annoyed  to  think  that  the  opportunity  of  seeing  his 
betrothed  that  evening  was  gone. 

He  drove  down  to  the  club,  and  after  ordering  his 
dinner  went  into  the  morning  room.  There  had  been  a 
great  deal  of  talk  going  on  as  he  opened  the  door,  but 
a  sudden  silence  seemed  to  fall  on  all  the  members  as 
he  walked  into  the  room.  It  was  still  broad  daylight, 
and  the  evening  sun  was  flinging  broad  beams  through 
the  great  plate-glass  windows. 

"By  Jove!  How  pale  he  looks,"  whispered  one  man 
to  another. 

"No  wonder;  he  is  in  a  nasty  hole." 

Two  of  his  friends,  with  much  show  and  ostentation, 
walked  across  the  room,  grasped  him  by  the  hand,  and 


CHARITT  121 

after  bidding  him  "buck  up  and  face  the  music," 
abruptly  went  out.  Three  others  whom  he  knew  sud- 
denly became  deeply  absorbed  in  their  papers.  Half  a 
dozen  men  with  whom  he  had  no  acquaintance  whatever 
stared  rather  rudely.  He  flung  himself  into  a  chair  and 
idly  turned  the  pages  of  a  magazine  until  he  was  told 
that  his  dinner  was  ready. 

He  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  he  was  being 
looked  at  and  talked  about  all  the  while  he  ate.  He  tried 
to  shake  it  off,  for  he  felt  he  was  getting  self-conscious 
about  this  wretched  business.  But  somehow  the  even- 
ing seemed  very  lonely,  and  although  there  was  one  of 
his  favourite  operas  being  given  at  Covent  Garden,  he 
weakly  yielded  to  a  strange  reluctance  to  go  there. 

After  dinner  the  club  was  nearly  empty,  for  in  the 
mid-season  every  man  has  some  engagement  or  another 
for  the  evening.  It  was  horribly  dull,  and  Paul  sat  by 
the  open  window  to  catch  the  little  air  there  was  coming 
in  from  the  sun-baked  street,  feeling  unusually  de- 
pressed and  nervous.  As  the  big  clock  behind  him 
struck  eleven,  he  rose  impatiently  out  of  his  chair. 

"I'm  not  in  the  cue  for  society  and  ordinary  people 
to-night,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  will  go  down  and  see 
Philip — Father  Gregory,  as  he  calls  himself  now." 

As  he  passed  into  the  hall  and  picked  up  his  light 
overcoat  three  or  four  young  men  in  spotless  attire  and 
large  button-holes  were  being  helped  into  their  coats. 

"See  you  later  at  Lady  Scarsdale's,  dear  boy,"  said 
one. 

"Yes,  I  shall  turn  up  there  about  one.  I  promised  to 
meet  some  people  at  Princes'  first.  Are  you  going?" 

"Rather!"  said  a  third.  "Lady  Scarsdale's  suppers 
are  some  of  the  best  in  town,  and  old  Scarsdale  always 
trots  out  such  ripping  cigars  as  one  leaves." 


122         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Paul  walked  past  them  with  his  head  in  the  air  and  a 
very  set  look  on  his  handsome  face.  So  Lady  Scars- 
dale's  party  was  not  postponed.  It  was  merely  he  who 
had  been  put  off.  It  was  a  little  thing,  a  mere  pin  prick, 
dealt  by  the  hand  of  a  frivolous  woman,  but  it  hurt  him 
like  a  sword  thrust. 

"So  things  are  going  to  take  this  turn,"  he  thought, 
as  a  swift  cab  bore  him  eastward.  "Is  this  the  begin- 
ning of  it?  Are  they  all  going  to  behave  like  this,  and  if 
so  what  is  going  to  be  the  end?" 

He  passed  through  the  silent  city,  deserted  and  smell- 
ing clean  of  freshly  sprinkled  water,  on  to  where  the 
long  row  of  lights  and  stalls  and  hoarse  cries  and  frowsy 
crowds  made  another  world;  where  the  people  never 
seemed  to  go  to  bed;  where  the  streets  were  alive  with 
noise  and  light  and  music  and  quarrelling  all  the  night 
through.  Where  the  public  houses  shut  their  doors  for 
a  few  brief  hours,  and  where  the  wickedness  and  the 
misery  and  the  poverty  of  a  whole  world  of  people 
seethed  and  fermented. 

Paul  seemed  to  drive  for  hours,  and  as  they  went  fur- 
ther east  the  cabman  had  to  ask  his  way.  Finally  he 
turned  up  a  narrow  street;  it  was  unlit  from  end  to  end, 
and  made  more  dark  by  the  height  of  the  houses  on  the 
other  side.  After  the  roar  and  clatter  of  the  main  road 
it  was  very  quiet. 

"I  think  this  must  be  the  place,  sir,"  said  the  cabman 
through  the  trap,  pulling  up  at  a  low,  iron-studded  door 
in  a  dead  wall.  A  bell  handle  on  a  rough  cord  dangled 
high  out  of  the  reach  of  passing  ragamuffins. 

"I  will  try  here,"  said  Paul,  getting  out  and  pulling 
at  the  handle. 

A  distant  clang  woke  the  echoes  for  one  moment  and 


CHARITT  123 

then  all  was  still  again  until  the  soft  pattering  of  sandal- 
shod  feet  came  whispering  down  the  long  corridor. 

"Is  this  the  monastery?"  said  Paul  to  an  indefinite 
figure  that,  with  a  smoking  lantern  in  its  hand,  stood 
before  him. 

"Whom  do  you  wish  to  see?"  was  the  answer. 

"Father  Gregory;  is  he  at  home?" 

The  figure  said  "Yes,"  and  Paul,  tossing  some  money 
to  the  cabman,  entered  under  the  low  arch  of  the  door- 
way. 

It  was  very  quiet  within,  and  cool  and  even  sweet 
after  the  close,  foul  streets  through  which  he  had  driven. 
Here  and  there  at  the  corners  of  the  stone  corridors 
small  lamps  burned  feebly,  but  it  was  all  on  a  level  and 
Paul  strode  on  behind  the  white-habited  figure  that 
seemed  to  glide  in  front  of  him.  Presently  he  was 
shown  into  a  little  room;  it  was  the  parlour  of  the 
monastery,  and  as  bare  and  plain  and  clean  as  such 
places  are. 

"I  will  send  Father  Gregory  to  you,"  said  the  monk, 
closing  the  door  on  Paul. 

One  candle  burned  in  the  centre  of  the  table;  an  open 
window  was  making  it  gutter,  and  it  formed  what  old 
women  in  the  country  call  a  "winding-sheet."  Paul 
smiled  bitterly  as  he  watched  the  dropping  tallow  harden, 
and  thinking  of  the  past  day  muttered  to  himself,  "I 
wonder  if  it  is  an  omen?" 

He  continued  to  stare  gloomily,  without  thought  or 
movement,  at  the  wavering  light  until  a  cheery  voice  from 
the  doorway  cried: 

"Ah!  you  have  come  so  soon;  that  is  what  I  call 
keeping  a  promise." 

Paul  turned  and  took  his  old  friend  by  the  hand. 


124        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"I  can  lay  claim  to  no  virtue  on  that  score.  I  think 
I  am  driven  to  you  by  trouble." 

Father  Gregory  looked  grave.  "So  that  you  come  to 
us  at  all,  that  is  something.  When  people  are  happy  and 
all  the  world  goes  well  with  them  God  is  little  more  than 
a  myth.  It  is  only  sorrow  and  pain  and  disappointment 
that  make  men  cry  out  to  Him.  I  think  that  is  why 
such  things  are  sent  to  us.  Now,  will  you  not  come  to 
my  room  and  we  will  have  a  talk,  and — "  Then  his  eye 
fell  on  Paul's  immaculate  evening  dress.  "But  perhaps 
you  have  no  time ;  you  are  going  somewhere  to-night,  out 
into  society?" 

Paul  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "No,"  he  said,  shak- 
ing his  head.  "Society  does  not  want  me  just  now;  I 
have  had  a  hint  to  stop  away." 

The  feeling  of  childish  petulance  that  comes  to  people 
even  in  their  greatest  sorrows  made  him  pull  out  the  crum- 
pled telegram  from  his  pocket  and  toss  it  on  the  table. 

"Read  that,"  he  said.  "It  is  all  a  lie — a  sham!  They 
think  I  have  done  something  wrong;  that  I  am  mixed 
up  with  some  low  scandal,  some  vulgar  intrigue.  I  am 
not  fit  to  be  in  a  drawing-room  with  decent  men  and 
women." 

Father  Gregory  smoothed  out  the  flimsy  bit  of  paper 
and  read  it.  Then  he  laid  one  cool,  strong  hand  on 
Paul's  feverish  wrist. 

"My  son!  my  friend!  you  are  taking  this  too  much 
to  heart.  You  are  over-wrought,  and  are  laying  too 
great  a  stress  on  a  mere  trifle." 

"Have  you  seen  the  evening  papers?"  said  Paul. 
Then  remembering  that  he  was  speaking  to  one  who  had 
relinquished  the  world,  he  checked  himself  and  looked 
around.  "But  perhaps  here  you  do  not  know  these 
things." 


CHARITT  125 

Father  Gregory  smiled  again.  "Oh,  yes  we  do!  We 
are  not  a  closed  Order,  and  we  are  obliged  to  know 
everything  that  goes  on  outside.  It  is  impossible  to  help 
people  unless  we  know  when  and  where  to  do  it.  Our 
work  is  among  the  poorest  and  the  most  wretched.  If  we 
were  to  shut  our  eyes  and  our  ears  to  their  needs  and 
their  cries,  our  labour  would  be  in  vain.  I  have  seen 
the  papers.  You  are  paying,  through  them,  the  penalty 
of  your  position." 

"But  it  is  unjust!     It  is  a  lie!"  cried  Paul,  hotly. 

"Certainly  it  is,"  said  Father  Gregory.  "But  you 
must  remember — you  know  it,  in  fact,  as  well  as  I  do — 
that  all  the  world  loves  a  sensation,  more  particularly 
the  set  among  which  you  move,  for  they  have  so  few." 

"You  are  right  there,"  said  Paul.  "Dressing  and 
dining  and  dancing;  going  to  the  play  and  racing;  meet- 
ing in  the  Park  in  the  morning  and  at  the  theatres  at 
night  are  their  amusements.  What  a  treadmill  it  all  is!" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  assented  the  priest.  "You  know 
my  experience  of  it  was  very  short.  I  had  no  leanings 
that  way,  but  the  little  I  did  see  of  it  convinced  me  that 
the  reason  of  your  world  being  so  keen  about  scandalis- 
ing one  another  is  that  you  are  hungry  for  a  new  emo- 
tion. You  are  starving  for  a  new  flavour  to  tickle 
your  palates  and  your  brains  stagnate  for  want  of  exer- 
cise." 

"Yet  it  is  not  fair,"  said  Paul,  "that  I — " 

Father  Gregory  raised  his  hand.  "It  is  you  to-day; 
it  may  be  some  one  else  to-morrow." 

"But,"  cried  Paul,  impatient  to  speak,  yet  scarcely 
knowing  what  to  say,  "what  would  they  have  me  do? 
Would  they  have  had  me  let  that  wretched  woman  drown 
like  a  kitten  with  a  stone  round  its  neck?  Heaven 
knows,  the  women  of  society  are  hard  enough  and  bad 


126         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

enough  and  cruel  enough  for  anything.  Perhaps  that 
would  have  pleased  them.  Bah!  we  talk  of  our  civilisa- 
tion, but  the  women  nowadays  who  pose  for  virtue  and 
go  to  court,  and  scream  at  the  sight  of  a  mouse,  are  not 
a  whit  better  than  those  aristocrats  of  Rome  who  sat 
day  after  day  in  the  circuses  and  watched  their  kind 
being  done  to  death  by  every  torture  that  man  could 
devise." 

"And  yet  there  were  good  women  in  Rome,"  said 
Father  Gregory,  quietly.  "And  there  are  good  women 
in  London.  I  could  tell  you  the  names  of  scores  who, 
once  a  week,  lay  aside  their  fine  dresses  and  jewels  and 
give  up  their  receptions  and  gay  assemblies  and  put  on  a 
plain  gown  and  quiet  bonnet,  and  come  down  here  and 
work  like  angels  in  this  hell." 

"But  all  that,"  cried  Paul,  "only  bears  out  your  own 
words.  They  do  it  for  sensation.  It  is  a  novelty  for  a 
woman  who  has  ridden  in  a  carriage  all  her  life  to  travel 
in  a  tram.  She  likes  to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass  when 
her  hair  is  tucked  away  behind  her  ears,  and  she  has  got 
on  a  bonnet  that  her  own  kitchen  maid  would  not  wear. 
It  gives  a  new  zest  to  their  own  idleness  and  luxury  to 
come  down  here  and  go  among  these  loathsome  dens, 
and  see  these  awful  people  who  live  and  die  in  them.  It 
is  not  true  charity,  and  you  know  it  isn't.  It  is  playing 
at  it;  it  is  something  to  talk  about  over  the  dinner  table 
when  they  get  home  and  have  had  their  perfumed  baths 
and  dressed  themselves  in  their  laces  and  silks.  They 
are  all  amateurs  together.  They  have  no  sincerity,  no 
heart.  They  exercise  hospitality  towards  those  who  can 
return  it.  They  profess  charity  and  good  works  as  a 
means  of  making  it  up  with  their  God.  How  many 
women  are  there  who  do  not,  under  the  name  of  charity, 
make  exhibitions  of  themselves  on  stages  and  at  bazaars; 


CHART  TT  127 

who  do  not  flaunt  their  beauty  as  they  flaunt  their 
wares ;  who  do  not  meet  together  day  after  day  and  chatter 
and  talk,  and  scandalise  one  another  on  the  pretence  of 
holding  meetings?  They  are  all  selfish  and  hollow 
together.  There  is  no  true  charity  in  the  world  I  have 
lived  in ;  no  charity  like  yours.  Why,  Philip,  I  remember 
the  time  when  you  were  the  hardest  rider,  the  hardest 
drinker,  the  gayest  fellow  in  all  our  set  at  Oxford!  What 
good  days  they  were !  We  did  not  care  much  then  for  any- 
thing but  a  good  horse  under  us,  or  a  long  pull  on  the 
dear  old  river  at  sunset.  Fine  ladies  were  not  much  in 
our  way,  and  though  most  of  us  had  a  bit  of  money,  I 
do  not  think  that  our  particular  set  ever  calculated  on 
the  social  advantage  it  might  bring.  We  all  used  to 
count  upon  having  a  good  time  shooting  or  fishing,  and 
some  of  us  have  had.  Poor  Billy  Tenterden  got  his 
quietus  out  in  Africa  after  big  game;  he  had  his  wish. 
And  Reggie  Fitzurse  went  to  find  the  North  Pole  and 
never  came  back.  Tim  Mitford  married  and  is  a  country 
gentleman.  He  is  all  right;  his  wife  is  the  dearest  little 
woman  that  ever  wore  shoe-leather,  and  you,  though  you 
have  chosen  a  strange  path,  you  seem  all  right,  too.  I 
am  the  only  one  who  broke  through  the  traditions  and 
went  into  Society,  and  now  see  what  Society  has  done 
for  me!" 

"My  friend,"  murmured  Father  Gregory,  laying  his 
hand  on  Paul's  shoulder.  "You  are  taking  this  very 
badly,  very  bitterly." 

"I  have  reason  to  do  so;  when  I  tell  you  the  whole 
truth  you  will  understand,  I  think." 

"Come  to  my  room,"  said  Father  Gregory.  "I  can 
give  you  an  hour  of  my  time." 

Up  the  stone  stairs  they  went  to  a  narrow  cell,  and 
Paul  poured  out  all  his  love  for  Rosamund,  his  fears  con- 


128        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

cerning  her  feelings  towards  him  at  this  present  juncture, 
and  what  had  happened  at  "The  Hurst"  that  day.  Then 
Father  Gregory  spoke  words  of  comfort  and  gave  advice, 
not  as  a  preacher  or  as  one  who  teaches,  but  as  friend 
to  friend  and  man  to  man.  They  parted  with  a  long 
hand-clasp. 

"Then  you  will  come  again,"  said  Father  Gregory. 

"Yes,  I  will  if  I  may,"  said  Paul.  "For  you  have 
done  me  good.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  do  something 
for  you." 

"That  will  be  to  come,"  said  the  monk,  as  he  let 
Paul  out  at  the  low  door.  "I  will  watch  you  as  far  as 
the  main  road;  this  street  is  unlit  and  sometimes  dan- 
gerous at  night." 

As  Paul  stepped  into  the  huge,  wide,  lively  street,  he 
caught  the  faint  echo  of  the  monastery  door  as  it  swung 
to  with  a  clang. 


CHAPTER   XI 

MR.  KERQUHAM   SPEAKS 

BREAKFAST  next  morning  at  "The  Hurst"  was  not  a  very 
lively  affair,  and  there  were  few  words  spoken  to  break 
the  song  of  the  birds  that  floated  in  through  the  open 
window.  Rosamund  had,  as  usual,  come  down  first  and 
had  superintended  the  mysteries  of  the  teapot  and  coffee- 
urn,  but  she  was  very  pale,  and  the  tell-tale  circles  round 
her  sorrowful  eyes  betrayed  to  Mrs.  Kerquham's  keen 
understanding  when  she  entered  the  room  that  the  girl 
had  had  a  wakeful  and  a  troubled  night.  She  did  not 
know,  however,  that  Rosamund's  deepest  sorrow  lay  in 
the  fact  that  she  had  as  yet  had  no  letter  from  Paul  Carr. 
It  was  this  silence,  more  than  anything  else,  that  grieved 
her.  It  seemed  so  mysterious,  so  strange,  that  in  his 
great  trouble  he  should  not  have  come  first  to  her. 

Neither  Laura  nor  Honor  was  ever  very  brilliant  in 
the  early  morning,  for  they  were  girls  who  never  at  any 
time  troubled  themselves  to  be  either  agreeable  or  amus- 
ing in  the  bosom  of  their  family.  Mr.  Kerquham,  too, 
was  very  silent.  He  had  heard  the  previous  evening  at 
the  club  the  gossip  about  the  "West  End  Scandal,"  as 
Paul's  affair  was  called,  and  his  heart  bled  for  the  girl 
of  whom  he  was  so  devotedly  fond,  and  so  the  meal 
proceeded  in  almost  unbroken  silence,  and  very  little 
was  eaten. 

"Well,  you  are  none  of  you  very  bright  this  morning, " 
said  Laura,  with  a  loud  yawn,  as  she  rose  from  the  table 

129 


130        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

and  stretched  her  arms  lazily  over  her  head.  "Honor, 
what  are  you  going  to  do  to-day?" 

Honor  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  said  acidly: 

"Our  amusements,  my  dear,  will  depend  more  than 
usual  upon  our  friends.  It  is  quite  on  the  cards  that 
under  the  present  circumstances  nobody  will  care  to 
come  near  us." 

After  delivering  this  little  stab  at  her  cousin,  she 
slowly  sauntered  out  with  her  sister  on  to  the  verandah, 
where  on  long,  cushioned  chairs,  they  prepared  to  dawdle 
away  the  morning  hours. 

Mr.  Kerquham  then  rose  from  the  table,  pushing  his 
chair  back  heavily  and  sighing.  Poor  Rosamund,  yearn- 
ing for  some  sympathy,  for  a  tender  touch  or  a  kind 
look,  almost  broke  down  as  she  caught  sight  of  his  sad 
face. 

"Uncle,"  she  said,  brokenly,  "may  I  come  to  you 
presently  in  the  studio?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear;  you  know  I  always  like  to  see 
you  there,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham,  dreading  a  scene,  and 
trying  to  put  the  most  commonplace  aspect  on  affairs. 

Mrs.  Kerquham  looked  from  her  husband  to  her  niece. 
There  were  times  when  she  was  jealous  of  Rosamund's 
power  over  Alban  Kerquham.  She  feared  that  at  the 
present  juncture  tears  and  prayers  would  be  used,  and 
that  the  girl  might  carry  a  point  which  she  considered 
would  be  disastrous  to  the  family  fortunes. 

"You  can  see  your  uncle  presently,  Rosamund.  I 
wish  to  speak  to  him  for  a  few  moments  myself." 

Rosamund  took  the  hint  and  went  with  a  slow,  drag- 
ging step,  that  was  quite  unlike  herself,  out  of  the  room. 
Her  uncle  looked  after  her,  and  his  kind  eyes  glistened 
under  his  bushy  brows.  Mrs.  Kerquham  moved  over  to 
his  side  and  forced  him  back  into  his  chair  again. 


MR.   KERQUHAM  SPEAKS  131 

"Now,  Alban,"  she  began,  "you  must  listen  to  me. 
This  business  has  got  to  be  faced,  and  very  firmly,  too. 
I  know  exactly  what  Rosamund  wants.  You  are  her 
legal  guardian,  and,  I  firmly  believe,  the  one  person  out 
of  all  her  family  for  whom  she  has  any  affection.  She 
means  to  persuade  you  to  give  our  consent  to  her  immedi- 
ate marriage  with  this  Mr.  Carr.  The  thing  is  impossi- 
ble. You  must  refuse  at  once,  and  for  always." 

Mr.  Kerquham  raised  his  hand. 

"Why?"  he  asked.  "If  you  consider  the  matter 
calmly,  you  will  see  that  this  young  man,  of  whom  I 
must  confess  I  have  formed  a  very  high  opinion,  has 
done  nothing  wrong;  he  has  committed  no  crime,  he 
has  outraged  none  of  society's  laws." 

"Then  what  was  he  doing  on  the  Thames  Embank- 
ment at  four  o'clock  the  other  morning  speaking  to  a 
low  woman?" 

"I  suppose  you  have  read  the  papers,"  answered  her 
husband,  "and  his  explanation  of  the  business." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  tossed  her  iron-grey  head. 

"Explanation,  indeed!  I  wonder  that  you,  as  a  man 
of  the  world,  do  not  judge  your  own  sex  better  and 
know  that  they  will  perjure  themselves  through  thick 
and  thin  if  it  suits  them.  Decent  men  go  straight  home 
to  bed  after  a  ball,  and  do  not  loaf  about  the  streets. 
Rescuing  people  from  drowning,  indeed!  That  is  not 
the  occupation  of  a  gentleman.  There  are  plenty  of 
police  about,  and  it  is  their  work." 

"My  dear!  my  dear!"  said  Mr.  Kerquham.  "Do 
not  put  yourself  in  such  a  state  about  it.  Mr.  Carr  did 
what  any  man,  gentle  or  simple,  would  have  done.  He 
stopped  a  wretched,  half-drunken  woman  from  self-mur- 
der. His  act  was  one  of  common  humanity." 

Mrs.  Kerquham,  finding  herself  beaten  on  one  point, 


132         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

namely,  the  abuse  of  Paul  Carr,  turned  womanlike  to 
another. 

"Of  course,  your  argument  is  all  very  well,  but  think 
what  the  world  is  saying.  You  know  what  people  are; 
they  are  sure  to  put  the  worst  construction  on  such  a 
thing."  Mr.  Kerquham  could  scarcely  help  smiling  to 
himself  at  his  wife's  unconscious  self-condemnation. 
"If  you  had  only  heard  the  conversation  at  Mrs.  Riving- 
ton's  yesterday  afternoon,  you  would  have  known  at 
once  that  Paul  Carr's  social  position  has  been  very  seri- 
ously jeopardised." 

"I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  that  Mr.  Carr  is  scarcely  likely 
to  appeal  to  a  tribunal  of  Mrs.  Rivington's  friends." 

"It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  gird  at  Mrs.  Riving- 
ton, "  said  Mrs.  Kerquham,  who,  to  serve  her  own  ends, 
had  suddenly  taken  up  the  cudgels  for  that  most  unde- 
sirable lady,  "but  what  is  said  in  one  drawing-room  is 
said  in  another,  and  I  suppose  you  would  not  like  Rosa- 
mund to  go  about  with  a  black  mark  against  her  name 
for  the  rest  of  her  days." 

"Poor  Rosamund,"  sighed  Mr.  Kerquham.  "It 
would  be  a  great  shame  if  people  made  her  suffer  for  the 
absolutely  imaginary  fault  of  some  one  else." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  thought  she  had  scored  a  point  and 
pressed  her  advantage. 

"Yes!  That  is  just  what  I  want  you  to  see,  Alban, 
only  like  all  men  you  are  so  blind  when  it  comes  to  the 
little  things  of  life.  I  am*  sure  I  am  very  sorry  for  Mr. 
Carr,  and  I  am  quite  willing,  if  it  pleases  you,  to 
acknowledge  that  the  whole  thing  is  more  of  a  misfor- 
tune than  a  fault,  only  other  people — the  world  in  gen- 
eral— will  not  be  so  broad-minded,  and  you  know  it. 
Rosamund  is  a  very  proud  girl,  and  although  she  may 
feel  giving  up  Mr.  Carr  for  the  moment,  it  would  hurt 


MR.  KERQUHAM  SPEAKS  133 

her  a  great  deal  more  to  see  him  snubbed  and  cut  and 
talked  of  as  the  man  who  was  'mixed  up  in  the  Embank- 
ment Scandal.'  " 

"I  think,  my  dear  Margot,  that  you  are  imagining  a 
great  deal  of  this  social  persecution.  Paul  Carr  is  young 
and  wealthy;  he  has  plenty  of  time  to  live  down  any  tit- 
tle trouble  his  quixotic  action  may  have  brought  upon 
him.  I  am  quite  ready  to  stake  my  word  that  this  time 
next  year  the  whole  thing  will  be  forgotten." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  clutched  at  that  saving  clause  as  a 
drowning  man  catches  at  a  straw. 

"In  a  year,  you  say?  Very  well,  then,  let  that  settle 
it." 

"Settle  what?     How  do  you  mean?" 

"I  am  convinced,  Alban,  that  Rosamund  is  going  to 
ask  you  to  let  her  marry  Mr.  Carr  at  once.  Tell  her  she 
must  wait  a  year.  Tell  her  you  consider  it  is  only  fair 
to  us  and  to  her  cousins  that  she  should  not  rush  into  a 
marriage  which  will  only  revive  the  talk  that  is  going  on 
now.  If  she  cannot  trust  him  for  twelve  months,  then 
she  had  better  give  him  up  altogether." 

Mr.  Kerquham  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands.  Although 
in  many  of  the  minor  details  of  life  he  differed  in  opinion 
from  his  wife,  although  his  easy-going,  kindly  nature 
was  often  at  variance  with  her  stern  common-sense,  yet 
he  felt  that  this  time  she  was  urging  the  right  thing. 
He  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  paining  Rosamund,  but 
still  less  could  he  face  the  prospect  of  her  future  unhap- 
piness.  Suppose,  after  all,  there  was  something  in  what 
people  were  saying  about  Mr.  Carr?  Many  young  men 
had  very  dark  corners  in  their  lives,  and  many  young 
men  had  tried  before  now,  more  by  force  than  by  wit,  to 
make  a  clean  sweep  of  the  past  before  they  married. 

Perhaps  the  policy  of  temporising  would  be  the  wisest, 


134        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

for  he  knew  Rosamund's  nature  too  well  to  dream  for 
one  moment  of  entirely  breaking  off  her  engagement. 
So  as  he  rose  for  the  second  time,  he  looked  at  Mrs. 
Kerquham's  hard  face  and  said: 

"I  will  speak  to  Rosamund  in  the  studio  and  urge 
her  to  look  upon  this  matter  in  a  reasonable  and  temper- 
ate light.  I  cannot  promise,  however,  that  I  shall  suc- 
ceed." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  flushed  with  anger  as  she  faced  her 
husband. 

"But  you  must  insist.  She  is  your  ward;  she  was 
confided  to  you  within  a  few  weeks  of  her  birth  by  the 
rest  of  the  family.  She  owes  everything  to  you,  her 
position,  the  very  food  she  eats,  and  the  clothes  she 
wears.  Just  remind  her  of  that,  and  bring  her  to  her 
senses." 

"How  cruel  women  can  be  to  one  another,"  thought 
Mr.  Kerquham,  as  he  left  the  room  and  walked  down 
the  long,  sunny  corridor  to  where  his  studio  lay  on  the 
cool,  northern  side  of  the  house.  But  Mrs.  Kerquham 
felt  that  even  in  laying  the  embargo  of  gratitude  on 
Rosamund's  shoulders  she  was  doing  right.  She  was 
a  woman  who  would  not  knowingly  have  committed  a 
wrong  action,  but  the  world  and  its  teachings  had  warped 
her  narrow  nature,  and  had  led  her  to  believe  that  any 
means  were  justified  to  win  the  goal  of  social  advance- 
ment and  position. 

She  had  set  her  heart  nearly  a  year  ago  on  the  cap- 
ture of  Lord  St.  Ives,  and  this  not  so  much  for  her 
niece's  benefit  as  for  the  advancement  of  her  own 
daughters.  It  had  been  Paul  Carr,  and  Paul  Carr  alone, 
who  had  upset  her  plans,  for  she  had  refused  to  see  or 
admit  that  the  earl  might  not  in  some  respects  prove 
acceptable  to  Rosamund.  She  had  counted  on  that  mar- 


MR.  KER^UHAM  SPEAKS  135 

riage  coming  off,  and  she  had  missed  it  ofice.  Now  she 
was  going  to  have  a  second  chance,  for  with  Rosamund's 
engagement  in  abeyance,  and  Paul  Carr  forbidden  the 
house,  she  relied  on  her  own  powers  and  the  glamour 
of  Lord  St.  Ives'  flashy  manners  and  coronet  eventually 
to  win  the  day.  So  she  was  very  well  pleased  with  her 
morning's  work  as  she  hurried  forth  on  her  domestic 
duties,  for  she  had  gained  what  women  prize  above 
rubies — her  own  way. 

Rosamund,  from  her  favourite  seat  on  the  wide  upper 
landing,  heard  her  uncle  leave  the  dining-room  and  go 
slowly  to  the  studio.  He  had  not  shut  the  door  behind 
him,  she  knew,  for  the  latch  always  rattled  as  it  closed. 
That  was  an  old  signal  which  dated  back  to  her  nursery 
days,  and  meant  that  she  was  free  to  go  to  him,  so  she 
slipped  down  the  stairs  and  a  moment  later  was  in  the 
studio. 

As  she  pushed  open  the  door  he  feigned  to  be  busy 
with  a  canvas  and  palette,  but  as  her  slow  step  sounded 
across  the  floor,  in  such  different  measure  from  the  one 
he  loved  so  well,  he  dropped  his  sheaf  of  brushes,  and 
turning,  opened  wide  his  arms. 

The  tender  expression  of  sympathy  from  the  man  who 
all  her  life  had  been  her  dear  friend,  her  more  than 
father,  melted  the  icy  restraint  in  which  she  had  locked 
her  sorrow  during  the  past  hours.  With  a  little  yearning 
cry  she  ran  to  him,  and  as  he  folded  his  arms  about  her 
and  laid  one  broad,  kindly  hand  upon  her  hair,  she  broke 
into  a  very  passion  of  tears — tears  which  were  laden 
with  all  the  horror  and  anger,  the  love  and  anxiety,  she 
had  suffered  dry-eyed  till  now. 

"Hush!  Rosie.  Hush!  my  child — my  poor  little 
girl,"  murmured  Kerquham,  drawing  her  to  a  couch  and 
rocking  her  there  in  his  arms  as  he  had  done  in  her 


136        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

childhood.  "There,  my  poor  bird — my  Rosie — don't 
cry  so  bitterly — not  so  bitterly,  my  child." 

With  fond  incoherencies  and  soothing  caresses  he 
held  her  close  to  him  till  the  first  storm  of  her  grief  was 
over,  and  when  she  lay  exhausted  and  sob-shaken  on  his 
breast  he  drew  out  his  silk  handkerchief  and  passed  it 
over  her  flushed  face  and  humid,  tearful  eyes. 

For  a  time  she  was  content  to  rest  there,  but  with 
composure  came  courage  and  a  desire  for  speech.  Yet 
she  did  not  raise  her  aching  head  as  she  said: 

"Uncle  Alban — my  dear  uncle — I've  come  to  you  in 
great  trouble  and  in  more  anxiety  than  I  can  bear." 

A  sob  of  self-pity  shook  her  frame,  and  drew  from  Mr. 
Kerquham  another  tender  "Hush." 

"I  want  you  to  help  me — and  advise  me.  I  know 
you  will  give  me  the  best  of  your  sympathy  and  ad- 
vice." 

Alban  Kerquham  cleared  his  throat  before  he  could 
speak. 

"All  I  can  do  for  you  I  will,  my  dear,  but  I  fear — " 

Rosamund  raised  her  tear-stained  face  to  his. 

"Oh!  uncle,  don't  doubt  your  own  powers."  She 
put  out  her  hands  with  a  piteous  gesture,  and  then  let 
them  drop  inert  in  her  lap.  "Tell  me  what  to  do.  You 
are  the  only  real  friend  I  have  ever  had.  Paul  is  my 
lover,  and  will  be  my  husband,  but  somehow  that  is  dif- 
ferent from  a  friend.  Please  tell  me  what  to  do." 

Her  uncle  took  one  of  her  hands  in  his.  It  was  trem- 
bling and  cold;  so  unlike  the  firm,  strong  hand  of  his 
dear  Rosamund. 

"Tell  me,  dear,  first,  what  you  want  to  know." 

"Everything!"  she  answered.  "Everything  about 
this  unfortunate  affair  in  which  Paul  has  been  mixed  up. 
What  are  people  and  the  papers  saying?" 


MR.   KERQUHAM  SPEAKS  137 

The  artist  sighed.  "Quixotism  is  not  the  fashion 
nowadays,  I  fear,  Rosie. " 

Rosamund  sighed,  too,  as  she  stared  with  heavy, 
unseeing  eyes  before  her. 

Alban  Kerquham  patted  the  hand  he  held  while  she 
was  silent.  He  knew  of  what  she  was  thinking,  and  was 
turning  over  in  his  mind  the  best  manner  in  which  to 
meet  her  next  question. 

"What  should  I  do  about  my  marriage,  uncle?  It 
would  be  only  honourable  of  me  to  write  to  Paul  and 
tell  him  I  am  willing  to  become  his  wife  at  once,  or 
he  may  think  that  I  am  repenting  of  my  promise  to 
him." 

Mr.  Kerquham  felt  there  was  no  help  for  it,  and  the 
question  had  got  to  be  faced.  With  great  deliberation 
and  a  final  loving  pat  he  laid  Rosamund's  hand  on  her 
knee,  and  very  slowly  walked  over  to  an  old  Spanish  chair 
that  stood  within  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  He  was 
thinking  all  the  time,  for  though  he  scarcely  dared 
acknowledge  it  to  himself,  Mrs.  Kerquham's  words  had 
rooted  quickly  and  sprung  up  and  borne  fruit.  He  felt 
himself  that  Rosamund's  marriage  must  be  delayed. 
Deeply  as  he  loved  his  niece,  it  would  not  be  fair  to  his 
daughters  to  give  them  a  cousin-in-law  who  had  been  so 
disagreeably  talked  about. 

Rosamund  felt  the  subtle  change  in  his  manner,  for 
she,  too,  rose  and  stood  with  her  fingers  locked  closely 
together  and  her  great  mournful  eyes  fixed  on  him. 

"Dearest,  in  giving  you  counsel  about  this  sad  matter 
I  want  to  advise  you  for  the  best — only  for  the  best. 
Now,  about  your  marriage  with  Mr.  Carr — I  want  you 
to — " 

"Not  to  break  it  off?"  cried  Rosamund  passionately, 
while  a  great  wave  of  colour  flew  over  her  white  face. 


138        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"You  would  never  wish  me  to  do  anything  so  mean  as 
that.  Uncle,  you  couldn't  wish  that." 

"Hush!  hush!"  said  Mr.  Kerquham,  coming  towards 
her.  He  saw  at  once  that  if  he  had  ever  had  any  idea 
of  expressing  such  a  wish  it  would  be  absolutely  useless 
to  voice  it.  "You  must  know  me  better,  my  dear,  than 
to  imagine  I  should  ever  counsel  you  to  do  an  ungenerous 
action."  He  took  her  hand  again  in  his,  and  drawing  it 
through  his  arm,  made  her  walk  with  him  up  and  down 
the  studio.  It  had  ever  been  a  favourite  habit  of  theirs. 
"But,  dear,  I  want  you  to  postpone  your  marriage, 
and  to  let  me  write  to  Mr.  Carr  in  the  character  of  your 
guardian  and  tell  him  that  you  agree  with  me,  and  that 
such  a  step  is  desirable." 

"Postpone  our  marriage?"  said  Rosamund,  arresting 
her  steps  and  turning  very  white  again.  "But  that  would 
imply  a  doubt;  it  would  make  him  think  that  I  believed 
all  the  hateful  stories  that  are  going  about." 

"If  he  is  a  sensible  man  and  if  he  loves  you,  he  will 
trust  you,  and  he  will  see  that  his  marriage  with  you  just 
now  would  not  be  to  your  advantage." 

Rosamund  would  have  broken  in  again,  but  he  stayed 
her  eager  words  with  a  gesture.  "You  are  very  young, 
my  dear;  you  do  not  know  the  world  as  I  do.  You  may 
not  believe  it,  and  I  fear,  my  poor  child,  that  I  hurt 
you ;  but  for  some  months  Mr.  Cat r  will  be  under  a  cloud, 
and  although  you  may  be  ready  to  give  up  sunshine  for 
his  sake,  it  could  scarcely  add  to  his  happiness  to  know 
that  you  were  in  the  dark  with  him." 

"But  is  not  my  name  to  be  considered,  too?"  pleaded 
Rosamund.  "You  say  that  people  are  talking  about 
Paul.  What  will  they  say  of  me,  except  that  I  am  try- 
ing to  find  a  way  out  of  my  engagement,  and  seeking  for 
an  excuse  to  break  my  promise?" 


MR.  KER^UHAM  SPEAKS  139 

"Dearest  child,  no  one  knows  of  your  engagement 
save  some  half-dozen  people.  And  even  if  it  were 
guessed  at  it  would  occasion  no  talk  if  you  do  not  marry 
Mr.  Carr  for  at  least  another  year. ' ' 

"A  year!"  cried  Rosamund.     "A  whole  year!" 

"My  dear,  the  time  is  not  long,  and  it  will  be  a  pro- 
bation for  both  of  you.  If  you  have  any  affection  for 
Mr.  Carr  it  will  strengthen  it.  If  he  has  any  desire  to 
prove  himself  worthy  to  be  your  husband  he  will  so  act 
that  this  unhappy  business  will  be  wiped  away." 

Mr.  Kerquham's  heart  bled  as  he  noted  the  white, 
set  look  that  crept  over  the  girl's  sad  face — and  there 
was  still  one  more  condition  that  must  be  made.  But 
he  nerved  himself  to  the  task. 

"You  must  understand  that  when  I  say  that  your 
marriage  is  not  to  take  place  for  a  year,  I  mean  that 
Mr.  Carr  is  not  to  come  to  this  house  and  you  are 
not  to  meet.  I  trust  to  your  honour  in  that,  Rosa- 
mund." 

"Not  to  meet!  Not  to  see  each  other!  Oh!  uncle, 
that  is  too  hard.  You  are  making  it  impossible.  I  am 
sure  he  will  not  consent  to  that — and  I  will  not,  unless 
he  wishes  me  to  do  so." 

She  had  drawn  herself  away  from  him  and  up  to  her 
full  height,  with  upright  head  and  flashing  eyes.  Mr. 
Kerquham  felt  a  little  mean  as  he  prepared  to  make  his 
last  stand,  but  he  had  his  wife  and  girls  to  consider,  as 
well  as  his  niece's  happiness. 

"Rosamund,"  he  began,  "I  said  just  now  I  would 
trust  to  your  honour;  I  find  I  must  appeal  to  a  still 
higher  sense.  You  were  scarcely  six  weeks  old  when 
you  were  given  into  my  care.  My  sister,  who  was  your 
mother,  had  died  in  giving  you  birth,  and  your  father 
was  shot  in  action  out  in  India  three  weeks  afterwards. 


140        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

An  ayah  brought  you  to  Scotland,  and  there  was  a  ques- 
tion among  the  family  as  to  who  should  take  you,  a  little 
black-browed,  dark-skinned  orphan." 

Rosamund  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  Her 
uncle's  heart  misgave  him,  but  he  had  very  little  choice, 
and  he  honestly  believed  he  was  working  for  her  own 
future  good. 

"Your  great-aunt,  Lady  Charlotte  Lundy,  was  at  that 
time  just  married.  Sir  Alexander  was  even  then  a  selfish 
hypochondriac,  and  absolutely  refused  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  an  infant  who  was  not  of  his  own  flesh 
and  blood.  My  uncle  Kilbeggie — Rosamund,  my  dear, 
even  then  I  did  not  think  you  would  have  liked  to  have 
been  brought  up  by  Kilbeggie  and  Aunt  Sophia.  So  we 
took  you,  your  Aunt  Margot  and  I,  and  put  you  in  the 
nursery  with  our  baby  Laura,  and  made  you  one  of  our 
own  daughters.  You  have  been  that  to  me  ever  since — 
the  sweetest,  fondest  daughter  a  man  ever  had.  Per- 
haps your  aunt  has,  from  time  to  time,  let  her  maternal 
affections  override  her  sense  of  justice,  but  that  you  will 
admit  is  only  natural.  We  have  done  everything  for 
you — even  more  than  your  parents  could  have  done  had 
they  lived.  I  now  appeal  to  the  gratitude  which  I  know 
you  feel,  to  the  affection  and  honour  which  I  believe  you 
entertain  for  us,  to  be  guided  by  me  in  this  matter  of 
your  marriage.  As  your  guardian  I  might  insist,  but  I 
prefer  rather  to  appeal  to  your  affections,  and  I  beg  you 
to  accept  cheerfully  the  dictum  I  must  lay  before  you 
and  which  I  know  will  receive  the  approval  of  the  rest  of 
the  family.  I  want  you  to  consider  your  engagement  to 
Mr.  Carr  in  abeyance  for  a  year;  I  want  you  to  promise 
me  not  to  see  him  and  not  to  write  to  him  or  receive  let- 
ters from  him  oftener  than  once  a  month;  I  want  you  to 
look  upon  yourself  as  an  absolutely  free  girl  once  more, 


MR.  KER^UHAM  SPEAKS  141 

and  to  let  me  write  to  Mr.  Carr  and  tell  him  that  these 
are  your  wishes." 

Poor  Rosamund  looked  about  her  like  some  hunted 
animal  that  has  been  caught  in  a  trap.  In  appealing  to 
her  honour  and  her  gratitude,  her  uncle  had  touched 
her  tenderest  feelings.  She  had  a  higher  sense  than 
most  women  of  what  was  due  to  herself  and  to  her  peo- 
ple, and  her  nature  was  deeply  affectionate.  She  fully 
realised  what  the  Kerquhams  had  done  for  her,  and  that 
without  them  she  would  have  been  an  absolute  outcast 
and  a  pauper.  She  knew  that  she  had  lived  in  luxury, 
had  been  well  educated,  and  given  every  advantage  and 
amusement  that  the  daughters  of  wealthy  men  regard  as 
their  right.  Yet  in  her  loving  heart  she  vaguely  felt 
that  it  had  been  scarcely  fair  of  her  uncle  so  to  press 
these  things  home  to  her,  because  she  had  always  been 
conscious  of  the  debt  she  owed  to  him. 

"I  will  give  you  twenty-four  hours,  if  you  wish,  to 
think  the  matter  over,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham,  his  loving 
tenderness  asserting  itself  once  more  over  the  unnatural 
firmness  that  had  characterised  him  for  the  last  few 
minutes. 

But  Rosamund  was  stronger  than  he.  The  face  she 
turned  to  him  was  white  and  drawn,  and  her  eyes  were 
dim  with  the  passion  of  the  soul  through  which  she  was 
passing,  but  her  voice  was  quite  steady  as  she  said: 

"No,  dear,  I  want  no  time  to  think.  Such  things,  if 
they  must  be  done,  are  best  done  at  once.  I  only  ask 
permission  to  write  to-day  to  Paul,  and  tell  him  myself 
to  what  I  have  agreed. ' ' 

"Certainly,  my  dear,  you  may  do  that." 

"After  that,  I  have  one  more  favour  to  ask,  uncle. 
Do  not  let  me  hear  this  business  talked  about;  I  will 
bear  it  as  best  I  can,  but  do  not  let  me  be  tried  too  far." 


142         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Fearful  of  once  more  losing  the  self-control  to  which 
she  was  clinging  with  all  the  will  and  pride  of  her  nature, 
she  turned  hastily  and  went  out  of  the  studio. 

"Poor  child!  poor  child!"  said  Alban  Kerquham, 
flicking  a  tear  from  his  eyelashes.  "It  is  a  bad  business, 
and  she  is  taking  it  very  hardly,  but,  thank  God !  she 
is  young,  and  love's  wounds  heal  very  quickly.  I  hope 
I  have  done  for  the  best." 

The  door  was  flung  wide  open,  and  one  of  the  elect, 
frock-coated,  and  with  a  gorgeous  button-hole,  was 
ushered  into  the  studio.  Mr.  Kerquham  dragged  the  big 
easel  into  the  proper  light  and  took  up  his  palette  and 
brushes.  His  first  sitter  for  the  day  had  arrived. 


CHAPTER   XII 

ROSAMUND  WRITES  A   LETTER 

ROSAMUND  wrote  her  letter  to  Paul  that  same  evening. 
"My  DEAR  PAUL: 

"A  silence  that  is  sad  as  it  is  strange  seems  to  have 
fallen  between  us.  I  cannot  tell  what  motives  are  work- 
ing within  you  that  you  have  not  written  to  me  during 
the  last  few  terrible  hours.  Perhaps  what  you  are  doing 
is  for  the  best — and  men  are  always  said  to  be  braver 
than  women — but  I  have  not  your  courage,  and  so  must 
speak,  though  what  I  have  to  say  seems  to  me  very  sad. 

"But  first  of  all,  before  I  write  a  single  word  of  our 
past  hopes  and  of  our  future,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I 
love  you,  that  I  believe  in  you,  that  all  my  heart  and  all 
my  trust  is  as  much  yours  now  as  it  ever  was.  I  want 
no  excuses  or  even  explanations  from  you,  for  they  would 
insult  me  as  much  as  though  you  doubted  my  faith  in 
you.  I  only  want  you  to  believe  that  nothing  that  has 
happened  or  that  can  happen  will  ever  alter  my  feelings 
towards  you. 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  have  ever  been  very  demon- 
strative of  my  love  for  you,  but  every  time  I  have  heard 
your  voice  and  whenever  our  hands  have  met,  I  have 
been  thrilled  with  a  passion  towards  you.  My  life, 
despite  its  surroundings,  has  been  so  far  as  affection  is 
concerned  a  very  lonely  one.  My  only  friend  has  been 
my  uncle,  and  the  first  man's  lips  that  ever  touched  mine 
were  yours,  dear  Paul. 

143 


144        T^E  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"I  recall  all  this  that  you  may  know  the  better,  if 
indeed  that  were  needful,  how  entirely  my  heart  and 
soul  have  been  given  to  you,  and  I  want  you  to  remem- 
ber this  because  what  I  have  to  say  is  very  hard  and  bit- 
ter. It  is  costing  me  tears  of  blood  to  write,  and  I  know 
that  it  will  grieve  you  deeply. 

"From  the  moment  that  I  heard  yesterday  afternoon 
what  had  befallen  you  I  have  suffered  through  the  whole 
gamut  of  emotions,  with  pity  and  love  for  the  dominant 
notes.  But  all  through  the  past  night  the  vows  I  made 
to  you  and  the  love  I  pledged  you  a  few  days  ago 
remained  the  same.  I  had  hoped — I  had  prayed — for  a 
letter  from  you  this  morning.  Not  one  of  excuse — you 
must  understand  that — but  just  one  little  line  to  tell  me 
that  you  depended  on  me  and  that  you  trusted  in  me.  I 
wonder  if,  whether  you  had  written  me  such  a  letter,  this 
that  I  am  now  sending  to  you  would  have  been  different. 
I  wonder  if  your  silence  is  weakening  my  resolution.  I 
wonder,  my  darling,  whether  we  have  both  made  a  fear- 
ful mistake. 

"For  I  have  to  tell  you  that  our  engagement  must  be 
for  a  time  at  an  end.  Do  not  blame  me  too  much;  I 
could  not  bear  it.  Do  not  think  me  weak  or  false  or 
worldly,  even  if  you  are  angry  with  me,  for  in  your  calmer 
moments  you  will  reproach  yourself  for  having  so  mis- 
judged me,  and  I  would  not  wish  that  you  should  have 
one  single  added  pang  of  grief  just  now.  The  words  I 
am  writing  you  are  not  out  of  my  own  heart;  they  are 
but  the  echo  of  my  uncle's  wish.  He  has  spoken  to  me 
this  morning  on  the  subject  of  our  engagement,  and  has 
told  me  that  if  our  love  is  what  we  profess  it  to  be  it  can 
bear  the  probation  of  a  year. 

"Twelve  long  months,  Paul,  without  even  seeing  one 


ROSAMUND    WRITES  A   LETTER  145 

another!  It  looks  so  cruel  when  it  is  written  down  that 
I  am  almost  tempted  to  go  back  upon  my  promise  to  him, 
and  fling  every  consideration  to  the  winds  and  go  straight 
to  you.  One  thing  only  holds  me  back,  and  that  is  the 
knowledge  that  you  yourself  would  not  have  me  ungrate- 
ful or  lacking  in  duty  and  honour  to  the  man  who  has 
brought  me  up,  who  has  fed  me,  educated  and  clothed 
me  since  the  time  I  was  born.  My  uncle  has  been  my 
father.  He  has  held  me  in  trust  for  the  rest  of  the 
family,  and  he  has  appealed  to  me  to-day  to  help  him 
fulfill  that  trust. 

"Dearest,  it  is  very  hard,  but  what  can  I  do?  If  even 
now,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  you.  lift  your  hand  and  beckon 
to  me,  if  you  bid  me  put  behind  me  all  the  obedience 
and  respect  that  I  owe  to  the  Kerquhams  I  will  do  so, 
but  between  us  there  will  ever  be  the  knowledge  that  I 
have  broken  faith  with  those  who  were  good  to  me,  and 
the  time  will  come  when  you  will  wonder  how  soon  I 
shall  break  faith  with  you.  Paul,  I  am  racked  with 
trouble,  torn  with  anxiety.  Help  me  to  be  strong,  help 
me  to  keep  my  word,  so  that  when  the  year  is  over  I  can 
come  to  you  with  clean  hands,  and  with  the  knowledge 
that  I  have  been  true  to  myself  as  well  as  to  you. 

"I  believe  my  uncle  is  writing  to  you  to  say  that  we 
may  send  letters  to  one  another.  That  at  least  will  be 
something.  As  to  any  talk  of  our  broken  engagement 
and  my  consequent  freedom,  that  is  as  idle  as  the  sighing 
of  the  wind  in  my  ears.  I  have  pledged  myself  to  you; 
I  have  given  you  my  first  love  and  my  first  kiss.  Even 
if  we  never  meet  again,  if  you  cast  me  off  as  being  weak 
and  unstable,  if  you  forget  me  during  the  months  that 
are  to  come,  or  find  consolation  in  some  one  else,  I  shall 
always  be  the  same  to  you.  I  am  as  much  your  wife  as 


1 46        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

though  the  Church  had  joined  us  together,  and,  in  my 
sight,  nothing  that  can  happen  on  earth  will  ever  loose 
that  bond. 

"Always  and  ever  your  devoted 

"ROSAMUND." 

The  dust  danced  high  down  the  long  hill  of  Piccadilly, 
and  in  the  pleasant  afternoon  sun  the  great  streams  of 
traffic  glittered  like  a  rushing  river.  It  was  Saturday, 
and  crowds  of  smartly  dressed  women,  with  gorgeous 
hats  and  airy  flower-trimmed  sunshades,  were  being 
whirled  down  to  Hurlingham  and  Ranelagh. 

From  where  Paul  Carr  sat  at  his  open  windows,  with 
Rosamund's  letter  between  his  nerveless  fingers,  the 
sound  of  their  light  laughter  seemed  to  float  up  above 
the  whir  of  wheels  and  the  beat  of  horses'  feet.  He  had 
the  feeling  of  isolation  and  intense  personal  misery  that 
comes  to  all  who  are  in  trouble.  What  did  the  world 
care  for  him?  The  women  he  had  danced  with  and  dined 
with,  the  girls  he  had  taken  down  to  supper  or  walked 
beside  in  the  Park,  had  no  more  thought  of  him  than  as 
of  some  one  who  had  never  existed.  He  had  made  a 
mistake,  though  even  to  this  moment  he  could  not  see 
the  reason  of  his  ostracism,  or  why  an  act  of  common 
charity  should  have  been  counted  to  him  as  a  sin.  Yet 
a  sin  it  was  in  the  eyes  of  the  selfish,  dainty,  overdressed 
dolls,  and  they  had  put  him  outside  the  pale,  and  were 
already  speaking  of  him  as  "the  man  who  got  mixed  up 
with  some  nasty  business  in  a  police  court."  He 
laughed  aloud  sardonically;  he  knew  so  well  how  they 
would  talk,  or  rather  had  talked,  for  he  was  man  of  the 
world  enough  to  be  aware  that  by  this  time  he  and 
the  sordid  affair  were  old  and  stale.  Why  should  he  fret 
about  such  as  they?  They  had  cast  him  out  from  among 
themselves;  he  would  shut  them  out  from  his  own  sight 


ROSAMUND    WRITES  A   LETTER  147 

and  hearing.  With  nervous  impatience  he  rose  and  shut 
down  the  windows  of  his  room. 

Ah!  now  it  was  quieter,  and  he  could  read  her  letter 
again.  For  an  hour  he  perused  and  re-perused  the 
closely  written  pages,  exulting  in  her  whole-hearted 
love,  and  proud  of  her  self-sacrifice,  till  his  mood 
changed,  and  he  was  almost  angry  with  her  for  having 
yielded  to  any  wishes  but  his  own.  But  deep  in  his  own 
heart  he  knew  that  Rosamund  was  right,  and  he  knew 
that  Mr.  Kerquham  was  right,  too,  for  he  had  also 
received  a  letter  from  that  gentleman — a  letter  full  of 
manly  sympathy  but  firm  determination;  a  letter  that 
appealed  to  him  by  his  highest  sense  of  honour  not  to 
subject  Rosamund  to  the  social  trouble  that  at  present 
overshadowed  his  own  life;  a  letter  that  urged  his  good 
feeling  and  his  worldly  wisdom  to  let  matters  take  their 
course  and  allow  the  scandal  to  die  down  and  be  buried 
before  he  made  Rosamund  his  wife. 

But  it  was  very  hard.  It  was  the  last  drop  in  the 
bitter  cup  which  all  the  time  he  knew  had  to  be  drained 
to  the  bottom.  He  had  unwittingly  been  mixed  up  in 
a  perfectly  harmless  business;  he  had  played  Don 
Quixote,  and  quixotism  was  hopelessly  out  of  fashion. 
He  must  suffer,  and  he  must  suffer  alone. 

Alone!  alone!  As  the  meaning  forced  itself  by  cease- 
less iteration  upon  him,  it  seemed  to  strike  through  his 
brain  to  his  heart,  and  he  began  to  realise  by  degrees 
what  it  meant.  All  his  life,  since  his  baby  days,  he  had 
never  been  alone.  He  had  been  in  the  world  and  of  the 
world.  He  had  been  bred  in  it,  and  it  in  him;  he  inher- 
ited the  love  of  it  from  his  pretty,  light-hearted  mother, 
and  his  cheery  boon  companion  of  a  father.  First  it  had 
been  a  crowd  of  servants  and  the  ladies  in  his  mother's 
drawing-room,  and  then  the  sycophantic  following  of 


148        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

admiring  schoolboys.  At  Eton  he  had  lived  in  a  joyous, 
merry  circle,  an  adept  at  every  sport,  a  favourite  with 
everybody  in  the  school.  At  Oxford  his  fortune  and  his 
bonhommie  had  made  him  troops  of  friends,  and  when  he 
had  blossomed  out  in  London  as  an  eligible  young  man 
all  the  world  of  fashion  and  beauty  had  been  spread 
before  him. 

Alone!  alone!  Now  this  was  all  to  go.  He  was  to 
live  in  the  middle  of  it  and  yet  see  it  all  pass  him  by,  as 
a  broken  branch  caught  in  the  middle  of  a  rushing 
stream  withers  and  dies  and  is  left  behind  by  the  watery 
world  that  flows  around  it.  How  could  he  bear  it? 
True,  there  was  the  country,  but  to  him  it  had  always 
meant  delightful  parties,  with  hunting  and  shooting  by 
day  and  dancing  at  night  with  smart  women  and  the 
cheeriest  of  good  fellows.  Lately  he  had  longed  to  live 
in  the  country  with  Rosamund,  but  he  felt  it  would  drive 
him  mad  to  go  there  quite  alone. 

How  that  hateful  word  throbbed  through  every  nerve 
in  his  body.  He  caught  himself  repeating  it  parrot-like, 
and  at  that  started  up  and  began  to  pace  his  room,  and 
cried  aloud,  "Am  I  going  mad?" 

To  and  fro  among  the  luxurious  surroundings  of  what 
were  considered  almost  the  smartest  chambers  in  Lon- 
don Carr  paced.  What  use  was  it  all  now? — the  splendid 
carpets  and  magnificent  skins,  the  luxurious  cosy  corners 
and  the  cunningly  arranged  lights.  What  did  he  care 
for  rare  old  china  and  glistening  curios,  for  huge  palms 
and  great  banks  of  scented  flowers?  They  had  been  the 
picturesque  background  of  Society,  and  now  Society 
would  come  there  no  more,  and  he  would  have  the  stage 
all  to  himself.  As  he  stood  staring  with  wide,  haggard 
eyes  at  the  broad  mantelpiece,  covered  with  little  ivory 
and  silver  toys  and  the  many  bits  of  bric-a-brac  that  men 


ROSAMUND    WRITES  A  LETTER  149 

had  admired  and  pretty  women  had  longed  for,  his  eye 
fell  on  a  written  note.  "The  Monastery  of  St.  Dominic" 
was  printed  in  plain  square  letters  across  the  head. 

"Mr  DEAR  CARR: 

"Will  you  come  here  to-morrow  and  sing  for  us? 
Our  tenor  is  ill,  and  High  Mass  to-morrow  will  be  robbed 
of  its  chiefest  attraction  to  our  poor  little  congregation 
if  we  cannot  give  them  some  good  music. 

"Yours  sincerely,  GREGORY." 

Paul  took  up  the  letter  and  read  it  again  and  again. 
So  dear  old  Philip  (he  always  called  him  that  in  his  own 
mind)  had  remembered  that  he  could  sing,  and  for  the 
sake  of  his  poor  little  congregation  had  written  to  him, 
who  was  not  of  his  faith,  to  come  and  help  the  modest 
little  colony  get  through  their  Sunday  service. 

"Why  should  I  not  do  it?"  cried  Paul.  "No  one  has 
asked  me  to  go  on  the  river  to-morrow;  no  one  would 
come  with  me,  I  suppose,  if  I  invited  him." 

He  walked  over  to  where  the  grand  piano  stood  with 
an  orderly  cabinet  of  music  by  its  side.  Almost  without 
thinking  he  pulled  open  drawer  after  drawer,  looking 
through  their  contents  and  turning  over  loose  leaves. 
By-and-bye  he  came  upon  what  he  wanted — a  great  pile 
of  Gregorian  chants,  and  a  volume  containing  some  of 
the  great  Masses.  He  opened  the  instrument  and  set 
the  music  on  the  rack.  Then  he  read  Father  Gregory's 
letter  once  more. 

"Yes,  I  will  go.  It  is  a  selfish  kindness  to  accept,  for 
at  least  it  will  give  me  something  to  do." 

He  sent  a  telegram  to  his  friend,  and  then,  as  a  mere 
matter  of  form,  telling  his  servant  that  he  was  not  at 
home  to  any  one,  he  sat  down  and  began  to  sing. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

PAUL'S   ANSWER 

PAUL  spent  the  next  day  at  the  little  monastery  in  the 
East  End.  By  daylight  it  looked  an  even  poorer  place 
than  he  had  thought,  and  though  the  day  was  warm  and 
brilliant  outside,  the  tiny  chapel,  with  its  rows  of 
shabby,  rush-bottomed  seats,  struck  damp  and  cold. 
The  congregation  was  very  small  and  wretchedly  poor, 
but  the  priests  went  through  the  services  as  though  the 
elect  of  the  land  had  been  before  them.  To  Paul  it  was 
all  very  new.  Like  most  modern  young  men,  he  had 
not  troubled  himself  much  about  church-going,  except 
when  he  was  in  the  country,  when  there  had  been  no 
hunting  or  shooting  on  the  Sabbath  morning,  and  he  had 
filled  up  the  time  between  breakfast  and  luncheon  by 
drowsing  in  the  corner  of  a  pew. 

Into  a  Roman  Catholic  church  he  had  scarcely  ever 
been  at  all,  except  abroad,  where  he  had  regarded  such 
places  as  more  or  less  necessary  sights  to  be  seen.  He 
thought  the  service  very  simple,  and  he  remembered 
enough  of  his  Latin  to  follow  the  prayers  and  to  note 
that  they  were  very  earnest  and  heart-whole.  The  Mass 
was  served  by  four  wretched  little  half-starved  boys  out 
of  the  lowest  streets  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  their 
demeanour  had  struck  him  strangely.  He  could  guess 
pretty  well  from  the  expression  of  their  evil  little  coun- 
tenances how  they  had  spent  their  week  days,  but  here, 
in  this  bare,  cold,  whitewashed  place,  they  had  assumed 


PAUL'S  ANSWER  151 

a  very  creditable  appearance  of  piety,  with  their  sur- 
plices, and  he  saw  in  neither  look  nor  gesture  the  slight- 
est levity  or  irreverence. 

The  Prior,  Father  Lawrence,  a  grey,  sad-looking  man, 
asked  him  if  he  would  stay  to  their  mid-day  meal. 
Almost  without  knowing  it,  Paul  assented,  and  at  the 
same  time  offered  to  sing  again  at  benediction.  The 
dinner  was  very  plain  and  well  cooked  of  its  kind.  But 
Paul  was  too  interested  in  the  conversation  of  Father 
Lawrence  and  Father  Gregory  to  take  heed  of  what  he 
ate. 

The  long  summer  day  was  drawing  to  a  close  when 
he  took  leave  of  Father  Gregory  and  went  out  into  the 
evil-smelling  street  once  more. 

"It  seems  a  very  peaceful  life,"  he  thought,  as  he 
walked  along  the  wide  road,  where  Jewesses  in  diamonds 
and  plush  dresses  were  parading  up  and  down,  and  where 
round  the  door  of  every  public-house  seethed  a  foul- 
mouthed,  half-drunken  crowd.  "They  must  work  very 
hard,  but  they  are  so  in  earnest  and  so  happy  in  the 
small  successes  that  they  make  down  in  this  wretched 
quarter  of  the  town." 

It  was  a  long  walk  to  the  West  End,  but  he  was  in  no 
mood  for  driving,  for,  like  most  active  men,  he  could 
think  better  when  moving.  It  was  quite  dark  when  he 
entered  his  rooms,  and  a  dim  lamp  was  burning  in  one 
corner.  On  his  table  lay  the  pile  of  letters  he  had 
received  the  day  before.  A  little  apart  from  the  rest 
was  the  one  that  Rosamund  had  sent  him.  As  he  took 
it  up  tenderly  in  his  fingers  he  was  conscious  of  a  vague 
self-reproach;  he  had  thought  of  her  so  little  all  the  day. 

"Am  I  so  unstable  as  all  that?"  he  cried  aloud.  "At 
the  first  breath  of  novelty  my  trouble  drops  from  me 
like  a  loosened  cloak,  and  the  memory  of  her  sweet  faith 


152        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

and  trust  fades  into  nothingness.  Is  she  the  stronger 
of  the  two?  Sometimes  I  think  she  is,  and  that  I  am 
nothing  but  a  poor  weak  fool,  tossed  by  every  wind, 
shaken  and  swayed  by  every  .passing  emotion.  Yester- 
day my  heart  was  hers,  to-day  my  heart  slumbers,  and 
my  thoughts  and  feelings  have  been  absorbed  by — " 

By  what?  He  had  been  scarcely  conscious  himself 
of  the  impression  that  the  few  hours  spent  among  those 
humble,  hard-working  men  had  made  upon  him.  His 
whole  mind,  although  he  scarcely  knew  it,  was  raw  and 
bleeding  like  an  open  wound,  and  the  first  healing  touch 
of  sympathy  and  kindness  soothed  it.  He  had  been 
deeply  impressed,  more  than  he  could  say,  by  what  he 
had  seen  and  heard  that  day,  and  almost  his  last  words 
to  Father  Gregory  had  been  a  promise  of  a  speedy 
return.  Memories  of  the  monastery  and  the  whitewashed 
chapel  haunted  him,  even  while  he  read  and  reread 
Rosamund's  letter. 

Twelve  months!  Twelve  months  of  probation. 
Twelve  months  without  seeing  her.  She  said  herself 
how  hard  it  would  be,  and  how  long  they  would  seem. 
Why  should  they  be  long?  Why  should  they  be  hard? 

A  sudden  fever  of  activity  rushed  over  his  mind  and 
drove  him  to  his  feet.  He  paced  the  room  with  short, 
nervous  strides,  like  a  man  who  is  faced  by  a  great  prob- 
lem, the  solution  of  which  he  cannot  attain.  Why  should 
the  next  year  of  his  life  be  passed  in  vain  regret  and  idle 
solitude?  Why  should  he  not  do  as  other  men  had  done 
in  time  of  trouble? 

Paul  had  never  been  an  irreligious  man,  but  it  had 
scarcely  been  his  habit  to  cultivate  that  easy  converse 
with  his  God  which  so  many  people  made  a  show  of  main- 
taining. Even  now,  he  scarcely  thought  of  the  future  in 
that  way.  He  only  felt  he  must  do  something — be 


PAUL'S  ANSWER  153 

something — that  if  he  stagnated  in  these  rooms  of  his  in 
Piccadilly  or  went  into  the  country  he  should  go  mad  or 
take  to  drink,  or  perhaps  to  drugs,  to  dull  his  memory. 
The  Continent  was  an  open  book  to  him ;  there  was  no 
consolation  there,  while  to  go  to  further  and  more 
deserted  places  seemed,  so  he  argued  to  himself,  to  be 
merely  a  cowardly  shuffling  of  responsibilities. 

But  there  must  be  consolation  in  work,  or  why  did 
men  take  to  it?  There  must  be  healing  power  in  reli- 
gious exercises,  or  why  did  those  in  trouble  flock  to 
church? 

Church!  He  thought  of  church  as  he  knew  it,  with 
its  set  forms  and  impersonal  doctrines;  he  thought  of 
the  suave  parsons  and  their  consolations  in  little  set 
phrases — men  who,  even  as  they  spoke,  stretched  out  a 
greedy  hand  -  for  a  donation.  He  thought  of  all  the 
clergymen  he  had  known — hard-riding,  three-bottle  men 
in  the  shires,  who  had  a  merry  eye  for  every  pretty  coun- 
try wench  they  passed,  and  could  tell  as  good  a  story  in 
the  smoking-room  as  any  youngster  fresh  from  Sand- 
hurst. He  thought  of  comfortable  bishops  whose  slight 
ailments  required  them  to  spend  winters  on  the  Riviera 
and  summers  in  Scotland.  He  thought  of  the  fashion- 
able London  clergymen,  with  a  rustling,  adoring  congre- 
gation of  lovely  women,  each  one  redolent  of  perfume 
and  an  admirable  exponent  of  the  latest  modes  from 
Paris.  He  thought  of  them  at  smart  afternoon  teas,  at 
receptions  in  great  houses,  at  theatres  on  first  nights. 
He  recalled  their  stables,  their  well-dressed  wives  and 
their  daughters  who  lived  only  for  society  and  husband- 
catching. 

Then,  as  in  a  flash,  his  mind  went  back  to  his  old  Oxford 
friend — a  first-rate  oar,  a  capital  talker,  who  could  play 
billiards  and  shoot  straight,  and  ride  anything  that  ever 


154        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

was  foaled.  He  thought  of  him  in  their  'Varsity  days, 
his  broad  shoulders  in  a  suit  of  flannels,  his  square  plain 
face  under  a  straw  hat,  swinging  down  the  "High"  in 
the  old  university  town,  equally  ready  for  a  frolic  as  for 
work,  for  a  lazy  day  on  the  Cherwell,  or  a  night's  hard 
cramming  for  an  exam.  Then  he  thought  of  him  as  he 
was  now — Father  Gregory — with  no  surname  and  no 
entity,  a  mere  atom  in  a  hard-working  body  of  good 
men,  vowed  to  poverty  and  celibacy,  cut  off  from  all  the 
joys  of  healthy  manhood,  living  a  round  of  rescue  work 
among  the  lowest  slums  of  London  and  of  religious 
exercise  in  a  wretched  little  whitewashed  chapel. 

"He  at  least  is  a  man,"  cried  Paul  aloud.  "He  has 
sacrificed  himself  for  his  convictions  and  for  the  good  of 
others.  Surely,  if  he  can  do  it,  I  can  do  the  same. 
Life  was  as  fair  for  him  ten  years  ago  as  it  was  for  me 
until  the  beginning  of  this  week  He  did  not  need  a 
tragedy  to  make  him  what  he  is.  He  simply  became  a 
priest  for  the  benefit  of  his  fellow  men.  He  is  of  sterner 
stuff  than  I  am,  for  I  am  only  going  to  do  what  he  has 
done  under  the  pressure  of  shame  and  unhappiness. " 

He  sat  down,  and  drawing  paper  to  him,  began  to 
write  quickly: 

"MY  DEAREST  LOVE, 

"My  silence  to  you  was  cowardly;  I  should  have 
guessed  that  it  added  to  your  suffering.  But  a  good 
Father  and  an  old  friend  of  mine  is  sending  you  the 
explanations  and  details  that  you  say  you  will  not  accept 
from  me. 

"The  step  I  am  now  going  to  take  will,  I  hope,  bring 
you  some  degree  of  peace.  I  am  going  to  pass  the 
twelve  months  of  waiting  and  probation  by  trying  to 
learn  to  be  a  better  and  a  stronger  man. 


PAUL'S  ANSWER  155 

"I  shall  write  to  you  from  time  to  time,  and  beg  that 
whatever  you  may  hear,  you  will  always  keep  the  mem- 
ory of  my  love  and  my  faithfulness  to  you  in  your  heart. 
When  the  time  is  passed,  we  shall  meet  again.  God 
grant  that  neither  of  us  will  have  changed  towards  the 
other.  Whatever  it  may  please  you  to  do,  I  shall  ever 
remain,  in  heart  and  in  affection, 

"Your  husband, 

"PAUL." 

He  sealed  the  letter,  and  then  with  a  new  energy 
turned  up  the  light  in  his  rooms,  and  began  to  move 
about  them  like  a  man  who  prepares  for  a  journey. 
Warm  though  the  night  was,  he  lit  a  fire,  the  better  to 
destroy  such  papers  as  he  did  not  wish  strangers  to  see. 
Others  he  sealed  into  packets  and  directed  to  his  lawyers 
and  his  bankers.  He  had  written  many  letters  before 
the  early  dawn  flung  its  first  rays  through  the  open  win- 
dow. They  lay  in  a  large  pile  on  the  table,  and  by  them 
was  a  list  of  instructions  to  his  servants  as  to  the  care 
of  his  rooms  and  personal  belongings.  He  worked  quite 
quietly,  and  never  wavered  for  a  moment,  save  when  he 
took  up  Rosamund's  photograph  and  sealed  it  with  the 
letter  she  had  sent  him.  For  one  moment  he  laid  it 
among  the  others  that  were  ready  for  the  post,  but  it 
had  scarcely  left  his  fingers  before  he  took  it  up  again. 

"I  cannot  part  from  that  just  yet,"  he  murmured, 
and  slipped  it  into  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat. 

When  his  man  came  in  and  by  his  looks  expressed 
the  astonishment  he  was  too  well  trained  to  speak,  Paul 
had  finished  his  self-imposed  task. 

"Barker,"  he  said,  quietly,  "lam  going  away  for  a 
year.  You  will  find  all  my  wishes  on  this  piece  of  paper, 
and  you  will  carry  them  out.  Those  letters  are  to  go 
to  the  post,  and  any  that  come  for  me,  you  must  take  to 


156        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

my  solicitors.  I  should  wish  you  and  your  wife  to  remain 
here  in  charge.  Do  not  let  there  be  any  talk  about  my 
departure.  I  have  written  to  the  bank  about  money 
matters;  everything  will  be  all  right.  Now  pack  me  a 
few  clothes,  and  bring  me  a  cup  of  tea.  Then  call  me 
a  hansom." 

The  man  did  as  he  was  told,  and  an  hour  later  Paul 
Carr  went  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  cheerful  street, 
and  setting  his  face  towards  the  new  risen  sun,  drove 
from  the  west  to  the  east. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

A  GARDEN   FANCY 

THE  season  had  gone  apace.  Ascot  and  Henley  and  the 
society  gatherings  that  are  warranted  by  a  couple  of 
smart  cricket  matches  at  Lord's  were  over.  The  grass 
in  the  open  spaces  of  the  parks  was  burnt  to  a  sickly 
brown,  and  the  poor  thirsty  trees,  which  but  a  few  weeks 
back  had  been  radiant  in  their  spring  finery,  were  begin- 
ning slowly  to  shed  the  first  withered  rags  of  their  once 
green  garments.  The  women  were  getting  to  look  a  lit- 
tle dragged  and  thin,  and  many  of  the  young  girls  who 
were  in  their  first  season  had  already  begun  surrep- 
titiously to  rouge  their  cheeks  before  starting  out  on  a 
long  night  of  dances  and  receptions.  The  heat  had  been 
intense,  the  season  a  good  one,  which  meant  that  every- 
body had  worked  hard  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  and  all 
the  world  was  beginning  to  long  for  the  salt  freshness  of 
the  Solent,  or  the  clean,  crisp  air  of  the  purple  northern 
moors. 

In  the  shady  gardens  of  "The  Hurst"  it  was  stiil 
green  and  fresh.  A  perfect  army  of  men  watered  the 
velvety  lawns  at  dawn  and  at  night,  and  there  was 
neither  sufficient  dust  nor  traffic  in  the  neighbourhood 
materially  to  mar  the  full  foliage  of  the  magnificent  trees. 
The  flower  beds  were  in  the  full  tide  of  brilliant  colour, 
and  the  roses  that  grew  over  the  verandah  hung  like 
great  flags  of  cream  and  pink  and  deep  crimson.  Never 
had  "The  Hurst"  looked  so  pretty,  and  never  had  things 
gone  so  badly  within  its  richly  furnished  walls. 


158        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

To  begin  with,  Laura  had  given  both  her  parents  a 
great  deal  of  trouble.  The  girl  had  grown  utterly  out 
of  hand,  and  her  insatiable  desire  for  amusement,  her 
reckless  and  uncontrollable  passion  for  flirtation  and 
admiration  had  only  been  satiated  at  the  cost  of  all 
decency,  propriety,  and  —  although  Mrs.  Kerquham 
scarcely  acknowledged  it  even  to  herself  —  reputation. 
She  had  kicked  over  the  traces  completely,  and  within 
the  last  few  weeks  had  run  serious  risk  of  being  mixed  up 
in  a  scandal  with  a  married  man,  whose  wife  had  proved 
none  too  complacent  under  very  trying  circumstances. 
In  vain  Mr.  Kerquham  had  commanded  and  Mrs.  Ker- 
quham appealed;  Laura  had  only  tossed  her  head  and 
said  she  would  have  her  own  fun  in  her  own  way;  she 
would  not  marry  if  she  could;  she  would  not  be  tied  to 
one  man  even  if  he  were  ten  times  a  millionaire  and  as 
handsome  as  Apollo. 

"I  do  not  know  where  I  have  got  it  from,"  she  had 
cried,  with  her  empty  laugh,  "but  I  am  a  free-lance. 
I  am  bored  to  extinction  if  I  see  too  much  of  one  person, 
and  if  you  are  at  all  a  wise  woman,  mother,  you  will  not 
urge  me  any  more  to  get  married.  It  would  only  end  in 
a  row,  you  know,  and  a  scandal,  and  the  divorce  court 
and  things.  Oh!  it  is  all  very  shocking,  I  know,  but  I 
think  it  is  just  as  well  to  warn  you.  I  am  not  quite  the 
fool  you  take  me  for,  but  I  will  not  be  tied  down  by  any- 
body." 

And  Mrs.  Kerquham  had  set  her  mouth  into  a  harder 
line  than  ever,  and  talked  bitterly  among  her  friends  of 
the  difficulty  of  keeping  a  girl  in  hand,  and  within  the 
narrow  limits  of  her  heart  had  wondered  what  she  had 
done  that  Providence  should  have  laid  such  a  scourge 
upon  her  shoulders.  Honor  had  become  engaged,  and  it 
was  a  strange  irony  of  fate  that  the  very  thing  that  Mrs. 


A   GARDEN  FANCT  159 

Kerquham  would  have  desired  with  one  daughter  was  a 
grief  to  her  in  connection  with  the  other.  The  young 
man  was  a  social  nobody,  a  briefless  barrister,  without 
either  the  desire  or  the  means  of  pushing  himself.  He 
and  Honor  would  sit  silent  for  hours  together.  Mr. 
Kerquham  vowed  that  it  drove  him  mad  to  see  two  such 
lymphatic  lovers  and  Mrs.  Kerquham  felt  bitterly  that 
her  girl  had  only  accepted  this  most  ineligible  offer  as  a 
means  of  escaping  from  home. 

Chiefest,  however,  of  all  Mrs.  Kerquham's  disap- 
pointments had  been  Rosamund.  When  her  husband 
had  told  her  that  Rosamund  had  acceded  to  his  proposi- 
tion that  her  engagement  with  Paul  Carr  should  be  in 
abeyance,  and  when  she  had  noted  how  the  girl  had 
borne  her  sorrow  with  dignity  and  quiet  reticence,  Mrs. 
Kerquham  had  at  once  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
needed  but  a  few  weeks  to  heal  the  scratch,  and  that 
before  the  end  of  the  season  her  niece  would  be  making 
a  brilliant  marriage. 

But  Margot  Kerquham,  for  all  her  Scotch  acumen  and 
all  her  twenty  years'  experience  of  the  social  world,  was 
apt  to  look  at  things  too  much  through  her  own'spec- 
tacles.  She  desired  her  niece  to  marry  well,  and  there- 
fore she  persuaded  herself  that  such  a  thing  would  come 
to  pass.  She  adopted  the  policy  of  never  mentioning 
Paul  Carr's  name,  of  taking  Rosamund  about  as  much 
as  ever,  of  having  Lord  St.  Ives,  who,  by  the  way,  had 
speedily  wearied  of  la  belle  Rivington,  perpetually  at 
"The  Hurst."  Because  Rosamund  did  not  go  about 
with  red  eyes  and  a  perpetual  sob  in  her  throat,  because 
she  took  as  much  pains  in  the  dressing  of  her  waving 
dark  hair,  and  was  as  particular  in  the  fit  of  her  gowns  as 
ever,  because  she  laughed  at  the  play,  and  enjoyed  the 
opera,  Mrs.  Kerquham  thought  that  the  past  was  better 


160        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

than  dead  and  buried — that  it  was  forgotten.  Poor 
lady,  she  had  never  made  a  greater  mistake  in  her  life, 
and  she  was  as  ignorant  of  the  working  of  Rosamund's 
heart  as  is  a  baby  of  the  mechanism  of  the  toy  that 
pleases  him. 

Rosamund  Keith  was  a  proud  girl  and  little  given  to 
talking  of  herself  and  her  sensations.  The  first  shock  of 
her  grief  and  disappointment  over,  she  set  herself  to  ful- 
fill with  a  whole  heart  the  promise  she  had  made  to  her 
uncle,  and  to  go  through,  with  what  courage  and  self- 
control  she  could,  the  twelve  months  of  probation.  She 
was  not  the  type  of  woman  who  wears  her  heart  upon 
her  sleeve;  she  did  not  wander  into  her  cousins'  rooms 
at  night  and  bewail  her  lost  love  and  the  romantic 
obstacles  that  barred  immediate  marriage.  No  barrier 
had  been  raised  between  herself  and  her  uncle,  and  when 
with  him  she  would  chat  brightly  about  generalities  and 
tell  him  little  scraps  of  society  gossip,  or  listen  with  all 
her  old  interest  when  he  spoke  of  deeper  things.  But 
all  the  time  the  wound  in  her  heart  was  green,  and  her 
faith  and  love  were  ever  springing. 

She  had  only  done  what  a  proud  woman  should  do — 
drawn  a  veil  between  her  feelings  and  the  world.  She 
was  not  going  to  let  herself  be  a  subject  of  idle  jest  or 
scornful  pity.  Few  outside  her  own  family  had  known 
of  her  engagement  while  it  lasted;  she  was  not  going  to 
publish  it  to  the  world  now  that  it  was  broken  off.  But 
she  suffered  intensely.  The  very  strength  of  her  nature 
gave  her  a  greater  capability  of  enduring  agony.  She 
would  dance  all  night,  and  then  with  unbound  locks  and 
bare  shoulders  weep  and  pray  and  wrestle  with  her  long- 
ings till  the  dawn.  The  very  capacity  that  helped  her 
to  enjoy,  enhanced  the  keenness  of  her  pain.  She  was 
like  a  great,  deep  lake  that  is  only  stirred  and  moved  by 


A   GARDEN  FANCT  161 

the  most  terrific  forces  of  nature;  the  little  breezes 
and  storms  of  life  made  no  impression  on  her  at  all. 
Outwardly,  the  only  difference  that  was  to  be  found  in 
her  was  a  slightly  increased  pallor  and  a  graver  attitude, 
but  her  aunt,  hugging  her  own  delusion  that  all  was  well 
with  Rosamund,  would  persist  that  the  change  was  due 
to  the  heat,  and  that  it  was  the  fatigue  of  the  season 
that  sometimes  made  her  look  so  tired. 

Meantime  Mrs.  Kerquham's  satisfaction  with  the  way 
that  things  were  going  gave  Rosamund  peace.  Her  aunt 
was  fully  persuaded  that  before  they  all  went  to  Scotland 
at  the  end  of  the  season  Lord  St.  Ives  would  propose  in 
due  form  and  the  engagement  would  be  announced. 
Rosamund  herself  was  but  little  impressed  by  the  earl's 
obvious  intentions.  She  had  been  so  used  all  her  life  to 
a  certain  amount  of  admiration  that  a  little  more  or  less, 
especially  now  when  her  whole  brain  and  heart  were 
filled  with  one  image,  made  no  impression  on  her  at  all. 
That  Lord  St.  Ives  came  to  lunch  and  tea  and  tennis  and 
dinner  almost  every  day  in  the  week  did  not  seem 
strange  to  her,  because  that  particular  season  they  had 
had  the  house  always  full  of  people.  He  was  only  one 
of  the  crowd,  and  he  came  and  went,  so  far  as  regarded 
herself,  just  as  Honor's  silent  lover  did,  or  the  troop  of 
fast  young  men  who  hung  like  satellites  round  Laura's 
brilliant  beauty.  That  was  another  mistake  that  Mrs. 
Kerquham  made.  She  wanted  Rosamund  to  get  used  to 
Lord  St.  Ives,  and  she  thought  it  was  very  clever  to 
treat  him  as  one  of  a  number  and  accept  him  as  a  matter 
of  course  in  the  family  circle.  Her  efforts  certainly  had 
the  result  of  avoiding  any  explosion  between  the  girl 
and  herself,  but  further  than  that  they  were  frustrated 
by  her  niece  looking  upon  him  as  a  harmless  if  not  very 
agreeable  appanage. 


162         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Goodwood  was  at  hand,  and  the  last  event  of  the 
season,  the  Marlborough  House  garden  party,  was  to 
take  place  that  afternoon.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kerquham  and 
the  girls  had  started  off  to  attend  that  brilliant  function. 
The  most  trivial  excuse  had  won  for  Rosamund  the  rare 
privilege  of  an  afternoon  to  herself.  Mrs.  Kerquham 
had  really  to  acknowledge  that  the  girl  was  not  looking 
quite  the  thing,  so  she  graciously  assented  to  her  niece's 
plea  that  she  might  spend  the  afternoon  quietly  and 
alone  in  the  garden. 

As  the  carriage  load  drove  down  the  long  avenue, 
Rosamund,  with  a  book  under  her  arm,  and  a  big  white 
sunshade  above  her  head,  came  slowly  down  the  veran- 
dah steps  and  across  the  sunny  lawn  to  where  the  basket 
chairs  and  hammocks  with  their  gaudy  cushions  made  a 
brilliant  splash  of  colour  under  the  cool  trees.  With 
a  heavy  sigh  she  flung  herself  into  a  low  chair,  and  clos- 
ing her  parasol,  dropped  it  at  her  feet,  where  a  moment 
later  the  unheeded  volume,  slipping  from  her  knees, 
joined  it. 

A  great  oppression  lay  upon  her  soul  that  day,  a  pre- 
science of  coming  evil.  Rosamund  was  not  morbid,  but 
her  nerves  were  all  a-tingle  with  the  expectation  of  bad 
news.  Perhaps  it  was  the  heat  that  made  her  feel  so 
cheerless  and  dejected.  She  pushed  her  broad-leafed 
garden  hat  back  from  her  low  brow,  and  pressed  her  cool 
palms  against  her  throbbing  temples.  As  she  sat  there, 
looking  out  from  the  shade  onto  the  blazing  lawn,  where 
the  scarlet  and  gold  and  purple  of  the  flower  beds  quiv- 
ered and  danced  in  the  sunshine,  she  was  almost  weak 
enough  to  wish  she  had  gone  with  the  others.  She  had 
so  looked  forward  to  this  afternoon  alone;  she  had  an- 
ticipated a  long  and  happy  dream  of  the  sweet  past  and 
the  beautiful  future  that  was  to  come,  but  she  could 


A   GARDEN  FANCT  163 

summon  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  to  her  imagina- 
tion; she  could  only  sigh  and  cast  anxious,  frightened 
looks  about  her,  and  feel  that  the  present  was  heavy 
with  a  coming  grief.. 

"How  foolish  I  am!"  she  cried  almost  aloud  to  her- 
self. "I  have  no  reason  to  feel  like  this.  I  am  sure 
that  Paul  is  the  same  as  he  was,  and  I  know  that  I  am 
unaltered,  and  yet  I  feel  somehow  as  though  a  wall,  a 
great  invisible,  insurmountable  barrier  had  been  built 
between  us,  and  was  growing  and  growing  and  growing, 
and  that  we  shall  be  as  far  apart  as  though  one  were 
dead  and  the  other  left  alive.  Ah!  it  is  absurd." 

Angry  with  herself,  she  'drew  her  book  onto  her 
knees  again  and  opened  it,  but  her  eyes  had  scarcely 
travelled  twenty  lines  before  they  had  wandered  from 
the  page  and  stared  unseeing  once  more  out  into  the  sun. 

"Asleep,  or  only  pretending?"  cried  a  loud,  clear 
voice  from  the  verandah,  and  Lily  Baumer,  a  girl  friend 
of  hers,  all  mauve  muslin  and  faint  blue  ribbons,  ran 
across  the  lawn  and  greeted  Rosamund  in  a  hearty 
boisterous  fashion. 

Miss  Baumer  was  the  daughter  of  a  German  artist, 
and  a  fine  specimen  of  a  modern  maid,  tall  and  broad- 
shouldered  and  with  an  opulence  of  physical  charms  that 
gave  her  the  only  pangs  of  anxiety  that  ever  clouded 
her  light-hearted  disposition.  Her  skin  of  milk  and 
roses,  her  large  light-blue  eyes  and  masses  of  pale  yellow 
hair  betrayed  her  German  origin,  which  was  further 
accentuated  by  an  obvious  want  of  taste  in  her  dress 
and  a  tendency  to  untidiness. 

"My  dear!  I  was  delighted  when  they  told  me  you 
were  in.  It  was  a  positive  instinct  that  made  me  guess 
you  would  not  go  to  that  garden  party  to-day.  It  is  sure 
to  be  a  fearful  crowd ;  not  but  that,  of  course,  if  I  had 


164        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

been  asked,  I  should  have  jumped  at  it  like  anything, 
but  you  see  we  are  not  on  the  Marlborough  House  list." 

She  plumped  herself  down  in  a  large  chair,  and 
began  to  pull  off  her  gloves. 

"My  goodness!  Rosie,  how  lovely  it  is  out  here! 
Why  on  earth  you  ever  go  anywhere  is  a  mystery  to  me. 
If  I  had  a  garden  like  this,  you  would  never  catch  me 
stuffing  about  in  hot  rooms  and  talking  to  the  same 
silly  people  every  day  and  every  night.  Oh,  dear!  I 
am  glad  the  season  is  over.  Do  you  know,  I  am  going 
to  Cowes  with  Mrs.  Toroni?  She  has  got  a  yacht,  and 
no  end  of  a  jolly  lot  are  going  on  it.  Oh!  here  is  tea — 
and  strawberries — and  what  cream!  Now  this  is  better 
than  all  the  parties  in  all  the  world." 

Rosamund,  roused  from  her  despondent  mood  by  her 
friend's  light  chatter,  busied  herself  in  pouring  out  tea 
and  giving  Miss  Baumer  the  good  things  she  loved  so 
well.  Lily  Baumer  was  exactly  the  sort  of  companion 
that  suited  Rosamund  at  that  moment.  She  ran  on 
with  a  trickle  of  light-hearted  chatter,  waiting  for  no 
answer  and  needing  none.  It  was  no  exertion  to  listen 
to  her,  and  her  talk  was  not  deep  or  abstruse  enough  to 
require  great  exercise  of  thought  or  very  much  concen- 
tration to  follow.  Lily  passed  in  review  their  various 
acquaintances,  asked  the  date  of  Honor's  marriage,  and 
hinted  at  some  fresh  escapade  of  Laura's.  Suddenly 
she  put  down  her  cup  with  a  little  clatter,  and  clasped 
her  large,  elaborately  ringed  hands  together. 

"Oh!  my  dear!  There,  I  was  nearly  forgetting  it! 
I  knew  I  had  something  to  tell  you.  Quite  a  piece  of 
news!  How  it  has  leaked  out  I  do  not  know,  but  they 
were  all  talking  about  it  last  night  at  Ranelagh.  You 
know  he  always  used  to  be  so  great  down  there,  what 
with  polo  and  pony  racing  and  things." 


A   GARDEN  FANCT  165 

"He?  Who?"  said  Rosamund.  Her  voice  was  quite 
calm,  and  her  face  was  like  a  mask,  but  a  little  sickening 
flutter  stirred  at  her  heart,  and  the  sense  of  coming  bad 
news  swept  over  her  again  as  a  cloud  sweeps  across  a 
sunny  landscape. 

"Why,  my  dear,  that  Mr.  Carr,  of  course!  Dear  me, 
I  always  did  think  he  was  such  a  handsome  man;  I  used 
quite  to  envy  you  girls  here,  who  saw  such  a  lot  of  him. 
It  is  quite  a  dreadfully  sad  thing." 

The  instinct  of  hiding  any  emotion  made  Rosamund 
lift  her  hand  to  the  brim  of  her  hat  and  drag  it  forward 
over  her  eyes. 

"Mr.  Carr!     What  has  happened?     Is  he — ?" 

"Oh,  you  are  going  to  say  'dead'  of  course.  I  never 
know  why  it  is,"  chirped  Miss  Baumer  in  her  cheeriest, 
manner,  "but  whenever  anybody  mentions  misfortune 
or  bad  news  about  anybody,  people  always  jump  to  the 
conclusion  that  they  are  dead.  I  am  sure  I  do  not  see 
why  people  should  trouble  about  things  like  that;  we 
have  all  got  to  die  some  time  or  other,  you  know.  It  is 
queer,  isn't  it,  to  make  a  fuss  about  a  thing  that  cannot 
be  helped?" 

"What  is  the  news?"  asked  Rosamund,  in  a  low,  dry 
voice  and  taking  no  notice  of  Lily's  irrelevant  philosophy. 

"You  have  not  heard  it,  then?  Well,  I  made  sure,  of 
course,  that  as  you  had  been  such  friends  of  his  that 
you  would  have  been  among  the  first  people  to  know. 
He  has  become  a  Roman  Catholic.  Just  think  of 
that!  He  was  'received' — I  think  that  is  the  proper 
expression— into  the  Church  last  week.  We  had  awful 
arguments  last  night  as  to  whether  he  was  to  be  called  a 
convert  or  a  pervert." 

"Is  that  all?"  murmured  Rosamund,  with  an  instinct 
that  there  was  more  yet  to  know. 


1 66        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no!  Why,  that  would  not  beany 
news.  Lots  of  people,  quite  in  the  best  set,  are  being 
made  Roman  Catholics  nowadays.  In  fact,  it  is  rather 
a  smart  thing  to  do,  I  think." 

"Well,  go  on,"  said  Rosamund.  She  was  staring  out 
at  the  ever-shifting  colours  of  the  flower  beds,  and  her 
voice  as  she  spoke  sounded  very  far  away.  She  was 
quite  unnoticed  by  Lily,  who  was  making  an  onslaught 
on  a  dish  of  sweet  cakes.  But  her  hands  were  locked 
together  across  her  knees  until  the  flowing  of  the  blood 
was  arrested  in  them  and  they  grew  white  as  marble. 

"He  has  gone  into  a  monastery,  you  know.  That  is 
the  bit  of  news." 

"A  monastery,"  echoed  Rosamund,  vaguely  trying  to 
collect  her  memories  as  to  what  such  an  action  might 
mean. 

"Oh!  he  is  not  a  real  monk,  you  know,"  said  Lily 
Baumer,  crunching  her  fine  white  teeth  into  an  almond 
cake.  "He  is  a  novice!  He  is  serving  his  novitiate — 
that  is  the  proper  expression,  I  think.  He  can  come 
out,  of  course,  whenever  he  likes."  This  with  a  know- 
ing air  as  though  very  proud  of  her  knowledge.  "You 
have  to  have  an  awfully  long  time  of  that  kind  of  thing 
before  you  are  a  real  monk.  Of  course,  people  are  say- 
ing that  he  has  only  gone  in  there  till  that  business — you 
know  what  I  mean — that  happened  in  the  spring  has 
been  forgotten,  and  that  then  he  will  come  out  again  and 
everything  will  be  just  the  same  as  ever.  It  would  be  a 
pity,  wouldn't  it,  if  a  handsome  man  like  Mr.  Carr  really 
went  in  for  being  a  frowsy,  dull,  stupid  old  monk?" 

Rosamund  did  not  answer.  She  could  not,  even  if  she 
had  had  anything  to  say.  She  was  so  overwhelmed  with 
the  suddenness  of  the  news,  so  filled  with  speculation  as 
to  what  it  really  might  mean,  that  she  could  form  no 


A   GARDEN  FANCY  167 

sentences  that  might  express  commonplace  curiosity  or 
idle  wonder.  Her  silence  attracted  Miss  Baumer's 
attention  to  her. 

"Why,  Rosie,  you  look  awfully  odd!  Have  I  told 
you  any  bad  news?  Is  it  anything  that  you  are  upset  at 
hearing?" 

The  good-hearted  girl,  in  a  fit  of  ill-restrained  emo- 
tion, slipped  out  of  her  chair  and  down  on  to  her  knees 
by  Rosamund's  side.  "My  dear,  my  dear,  I  am  so 
sorry.  You  know  I  would  not  have  hurt  you  for  the 
world,  and  I  did  not  think — I  did  not  know — indeed,  I 
did  not,  that  there  had  ever  been  anything  between 
you  and  Mr.  Carr.  Everybody  knew  that  he  admired  you 
very  much,  but  then,  you  see,  such  lots  of  men  do  that 
that  we  do  not  think  anything  of  it,  and  since  he  has 
disappeared  from  London  you  have  been  just  the  same. 
Oh!  poor  darling,  how  much  you  must  have  suffered,  and 
how  brave  you  have  been,  and  what  a  brute  I  am  to  have 
told  you  this  dreadful  thing  just  by  way  of  idle  talk!  I 
am  so  sorry,  dear." 

Rosamund  pulled  herself  together,  and  looked  down 
into  her  friend's  flushed  face.  Her  big,  dark  eyes  were 
full  of  unshed  tears,  and  her  mouth  was  quivering  like  a 
little  child's.  It  had  been  Lily's  rough  sympathy  that 
had  unnerved  her,  but  in  a  moment  she  controlled  her- 
self, and  laying  her  stone-cold  hand  upon  her  friend's, 
said: 

"My  dear,  I  would  sooner  have  heard  it  from  you 
than  any  one,  for  I  am  sure  that  you  would  not  tell  me 
a  thing  with  any  unkind  intent." 

Then  she  went  on  in  her  simple,  direct  way  that  saw 
no  need  of  making  a  secret  of  her  love:  "Mr.  Carr  and 
I  were  very  fond  of  each  other,  Lil.  We  were  engaged 
and  going  to  be  married  when  that  business  happened. 


1 68         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

My  uncle  was  very  good  about  it.  According  to  his 
lights,  he  did  the  right  thing.  He  insisted  that  for  a 
year  we  were  both  to  be  free,  and  not  to  meet,  and  that 
things  were  to  go  on  exactly  as  though  Mr.  Carr  had 
never  spoken  to  me.  The  time  is  going  by,  of  course, 
but  it  has  been  very  hard  for  me,  and  sometimes,  Lil,  I 
am  very,  very  unhappy." 

"You  brave  darling,"  sobbed  Lil,  her  sentimental 
nature  stirred  to  violent  emotion,  and  crying  all  over  the 
bosom  of  her  muslin  frock.  "Fancy  you  going  about 
as  if  nothing  in  the  world  were  the  matter!  Mr.  Carr 
is  able  to  go  into  a  monastery  to  pass  his  time,  but  you, 
you  are  braver  than  he  is,  for  you  are  stopping  out  here 
in  the  world  among  all  of  us,  who  are  just  a  lot  of  idle, 
heartless,  empty-headed  fools.  How  I  hate  them  all, 
and  how  I  despise  myself  when  I  think  of  what  you  go 
through  without  so  much  as  a  sigh." 

"Hush!  Lil,"  said  Rosamund,  trying  to  soothe  the 
girl.  "It  is  not  as  bad  really  as  that.  We  have  sworn 
to  love  one  another,  and  I  believe  as  much  in  Paul's 
affection  for  me  as  I  do  in  mine  for  him.  I  am  sure  that 
what  he  has  done  he  has  done  for  the  best.  It  was  a 
shock  to  me  just  now  when  you  told  me,  for  it  made  me 
feel  as  though  he  had  left  me  standing  alone  on  a  little 
island  in  the  middle  of  a  great  sea.  It  gave  me  a 
deserted,  lost  feeling,  and  it  was  that  that  frightened 
me." 

"Did  you  not  know  of  this  at  all?"  said  Lil. 

"No,  dear.  We  are  allowed  to  write  to  one  another, 
but  during  the  past  few  weeks  we  have  exchanged  no 
letters.  You  see  we  have  promised  to  be  true  to  each 
other — we  have  said  we  would  never  marry  except  it  was 
one  another — there  was  nothing  else  to  say." 


A   GARDEN  FANCY  169 

Lily  Baumer  scrambled  to  her  feet,  and  scrubbing  at 
her  eyes,  pushed  her  disordered  hair  back  under  her 
hat. 

"You  are  the  bravest,  most  splendid  girl  I  have  ever 
met.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  one  else  like  you  in 
the  whole  wide  world.  Good-bye,  my  dearest,"  and  she 
smothered  Rosamund  with  kisses.  "Mother  only  lent 
me  the  carriage  for  an  hour,  and  I  must  go  home  again ; 
but  you  promise  to  forgive  me,  don't  you?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  dear,"  said  Rosamund, 
gently.  "I  have  already  told  you  that  I  would  sooner 
have  heard  this  thing  from  you  than  from  any  one. 
Good-bye,  dear." 

"So  this  was  the  evil  that  I  had  feared,"  thought 
Rosamund,  as  she  gazed  once  more  upon  the  lawn,  over 
which  the  afternoon  shades  were  creeping  in  long 
straight  lines.  "Or  perhaps  it  is  not  evil;  perhaps  it  is 
for  the  best,  yet — what  a  strange  thing^to  have  done." 

The  strain  of  Scotch  blood  and  the  strict  religious 
bringing  up  of  her  life  dominated  her  for  a  moment. 

"Fancy  a  Protestant  becoming  a  Roman  Catholic.  I 
wonder  why  he  did  that?  One  does  hear  of  others  doing 
such  things,  but  I  thought  that  Paul  was  much  too  good'a 
man  to  change  his  religion.  In  a  monastery,  too;  they 
say  such  strange  things  go  on  in  monasteries.  Perhaps 
he  will  never  come  out  again ;  perhaps  they  will  influence 
him  and  keep  him  there.  Oh!  but  Paul  is  not  a  child; 
he  would  never  allow  himself  to  be  persuaded  so  much 
against  his  will — but  it  is  very — very  strange." 

Then  her  thoughts  turned  inwards.  "I  wonder  if 
it  will  make  any  difference  between  us.  I  wonder  if  his 
new  vows  are  going  to  wipe  out  those  he  made  to  me. 
It  was  just  here  that  he  told  me  that  he  loved  me,  and 


170        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

asked  me  to  be  his  wife.  I  remember  thinking  then  it 
was  almost  an  idle  thing  to  say,  for  somehow  I  knew 
it  for  some  weeks  before  he  spoke.  I  wonder  if  he  will 
write  to  me." 

And  as  the  afternoon  died  into  evening  she  sat  on,  a 
little  shocked,  a  little  sad,  and  very  fearful  of  what  the 
future  would  bring  forth. 


CHAPTER   XV 

A   REASON 

IF  to  Rosamund  it  had  been  strange  that  Paul  Carr  had 
voluntarily  become  a  member  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church,  it  was  to  him  little  less  than  wonderful.  He 
had  been  broken  and  disappointed  when  he  had  first 
taken  to  going  to  the  little  monastery  in  the  vilest  pur- 
lieus of  eastern  London.  The  quietness  and  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  place,  the  lack  of  pretension  and  the 
sincerity  of  its  few  inhabitants  had  for  a  time  acted  like 
an  anodyne  on  his  overstrained  nerves.  It  had  soothed 
him  to  sing  in  the  little  chapel,  and  it  had  given  him  a 
sense  of  well-being  to  spend  a  few  hours  in  Father 
Gregory's  poor  cell,  but  the  idea  of  his  becoming  a 
Roman  Catholic  had  been  as  far  away  from  his  thoughts 
as  that  he  should  himself  give  up  his  present  mode  of  life 
and  take  on  the  habit  and  the  vows  of  a  monk. 

Like  most  of  the  great  things  in  either  the  world's 
history  or  the  little  story  of  an  individual  life,  an  acci- 
dent had  proved  the  lever  that  moved  him.  He  and 
Father  Gregory  one  afternoon  were  quietly  discussing 
the  great  Sacraments  of  their  respective  churches.  They 
had  spoken  of  the  Sacraments  of  marriage  and  confirma- 
tion, and  then  of  the  greatest  Sacrament — that  of  bap- 
tism, which  in  all  churches  seals  the  soul  to  Christ  and 
forms  a  palpable  link  between  the  body  and  a  set  form 
of  religion.  Father  Gregory  had  been  speaking  for 
some  moments,  and  then  had  stopped,  waiting  for  Paul's 

171 


172         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

answer.  None  came,  and  as  the  monk  looked  at  the 
young  man  he  saw  that  his  whole  face  was  diffused  with 
a  mingled  look  of  horror  and  wonder. 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking?  Why  do  you  look  like 
that?"  the  Father  asked. 

"I  was  wondering,"  said  Paul,  in  alow,  introspective 
voice,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  fling  his  memory 
back  into  the  earliest  days  of  his  life,  "I  was  wondering 
if  I  had  ever  been  christened.  While  you  have  been 
speaking  I  have  been  trying  to  remember  when  I  first 
went  to  church;  it  has  only  just  come  back  to  me  that 
it  was  not  until  I  was  at  Eton." 

"But  many  worldly  parents  neglect  the  religious  edu- 
cation of  their  children,"  said  Father  Gregory.  "Be- 
cause your  father  and  mother  never  took  you  to  church 
it  does  not  follow  that  you  were  never  christened." 

Paul  passed  his  hands  before  his  eyes  as  though  he 
were  brushing  aside  a  veil  that  hid  the  past. 

"But  more  than  that  is  coming  back  to  me,"  he  mur- 
mured, brokenly.  "I  seem  to  remember  hearing  some 
of  my  mother's  relations  argue  with  her  on  some  course 
she  had  adopted  as  regards  my  religion.  I  can  recall 
some  one — I  think  it  must  have  been  my  grandmother — 
urging  her  to  do  her  duty  by  her  only  child,  and  then 
she  laughed,  and  said  the  whole  thing  was  a  mockery 
and  a  farce — that  no  one  was  made  either  good  or  bad 
by  the  commission  or  the  omission  of  the  sprinkling  of 
water  and  the  consecrating  to  God.  I  remember  now 
that  my  grandmother  was  very  angry,  and  told  my 
mother  that  she  would  live  one  day  to  regret  the  wrong 
she  had  done  me.  Poor  women,  they  are  both  dead 
now.  Neither  will  know  whether  the  wrong  has  been 
righted  or  what  the  results  of  it  will  be.  Only — it 
remains  that  I  have  never  been  christened,  and  that  in 


A   REASON  173 

the  accepted  sense  of  the  word  I  must  be  an  outcast  from 
every  church  and  from  every  sect.  I  am  not  a  Chris- 
tian." 

Paul  buried  his  head  in  his  hands.  The  priest,  reach- 
ing across  the  narrow  wooden  table,  laid  one  hand  on 
his  shaking  shoulders. 

"What  you  tell  me,  my  friend,  is  very  strange,  but  at 
least  you  have  lived  a  life  as  good  as  the  others  of  your 
world." 

"A  life  like  the  others!"  cried  Paul,  rising  to  his  feet. 
"What  kind  of  life  do  you  think  that  is?  You  did  well; 
you  left  the  world  early,  while  the  glamour  of  it  was  still 
over  you,  while  you  still  believed  that  all  men  were  hon- 
ourable and  all  women  pure.  I  believe  that  even  now 
you  have  the  heart  of  a  child,  and  although  you  know 
too  well  the  misery  and  the  sin  that  flows  by  your  very 
doorway  here,  I  believe  that  you  still  think  our  world — 
the  world  of  educated,  well-born  men  and  women — is  a 
good  one." 

He  laughed  scornfully.  "Your  belief  is  the  belief  of 
a  child  that  knows  no  discrimination  and  judges  every- 
thing from  the  mere  outside.  You  told  me  once  that 
people  of  my  world  came  down  here  sometimes  and  did 
charitable  things  and  screwed  up  their  senses  to  the 
bearing  of  disgusting  spectacles  and  fearful  sounds.  I 
told  you  then  it  was  all  sham  and  advertisement  and 
merely  a  mad  longing  for  a  new  sensation.  I  tell  you 
now  that  all  the  world  is  rotten!  If  a  good  action  is 
done  it  is  not  for  the  love  of  Christ  or  for  the  memory 
of  the  sprinkled  water.  It  is  for  a  motive.  Father,  I 
could  almost  find  it  in  my  heart  to  thank  God  that  I  am 
not  a  Christian." 

But  as  the  storm  spent  itself  a  new  mood  took  him, 
and  he  seemed  like  a  child  lost  in  a  dark  forest,  who 


174        THE  PASSION   OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

stretches  out  its  hands  and  finds  no  support;  who  cries 
for  help  and  is  not  heeded. 

"Now  I  know,"  he  said,  "why  I  could  not  bear  the 
transient  trouble  and  passing  shame  of  that  affair  in  May; 
I  had  no  one  to  turn  to.  The  only  reed  in  the  world  I 
had  to  lean  on  was  Rosamund  Keith — and  I  hope  I  am 
too  much  of  a  man  to  cast  my  burden  on  the  slender 
shoulders  of  a  mere  girl." 

"But  she  loved  you!"  said  Father  Gregory. 

"Yes,  she  loved  me.  I  feel  sure  she  does  so  still,  and 
will  do  so  to  the  end,  but  there  again — I  was  faced  by 
my  own  weakness.  If  I  could  have  believed,  really  and 
truly,  in  God,  I  should  have  felt  sure  of  her.  Don't 
you  see  that  faith  is  a  thing  that  must  be  trained,  as 
every  other  attribute  of  humanity  must  be?  If  I  had 
been  taught  to  believe  that  an  omnipotent  Power  was  ever 
ready  to  help  the  weak  and  weary,  I  should  have  greater 
faith  is  mere  humans  like  myself." 

"And  what  will  you  do?"  asked  the  monk. 

"What  can  I  do?  I  cannot  make  myself  as  a  little 
child,  simple  and  unthinking,  and  accepting  everything 
just  as  it  is  told  to  me.  Yet — neither  can  I  live  on  with 
this  knowledge  that  I  have  no  right  even  to  pray." 

"But  you  have  yet  to  prove  that  the  neglect  you  seem 
to  think  was  exercised  towards  you  really  did  happen, 
and  that  you  were  never  christened." 

"I  can  do  that  in  a  few  days." 

It  was  over  a  week  before  the  dull  corridors  of  the 
little  monastery  resounded  once  more  to  Paul's  firm, 
ringing  step.  He  went  straight  to  Father  Gregory,  and 
even  before  greeting  him,  cried  aloud: 

"It  is  as  I  thought.  I  Rave  found  out — I  have  proved 
that  I  was  never  christened." 


A  REASON  175 

And  so  it  was  that  Paul,  tossed  on  the  sea  of  emo- 
tion and  despair  and  with  never  an  anchor  to  cling  to, 
was  swept  by  every  sentiment  and  wish  that  swayed  him 
at  that  time,  into  the  bosom  of  the  holy  Church  of  Rome. 
He  had  so  completely  lost  touch  with  every  one  who 
might  have  influenced  him  to  another  course,  so  many 
weeks  had  passed  without  his  even  hearing  one  word 
from  Rosamund,  that  it  seemed  only  natural  he  should 
turn  to  the  first  consolation  that  offered  itself. 

With  his  customary  seriousness,  he  had  taken  the 
whole  thing  very  much  to  heart,  and  early  in  his  prepara- 
tions for  his  baptism  had  decided  upon  entering  a 
monastery.  Not  with  a  view  of  one  day  taking  final 
vows — for  the  thoughts  of  Rosamund  were  very  sacred 
and  very  dear  to  him,  and  he  still  counted  the  hours  to 
the  far-off  end  of  that  probationary  year.  But  he  was 
very  weak  at  that  time ;  he  had  been  so  accustomed  all 
his  life  to  living  in  a  whirl  and  in  a  crowd  that  the  effect 
upon  him  of  social  ostracism  was  very  great,  and  resulted 
in  an  almost  morbid  and  unhealthy  dread  of  everything 
that  appertained  to  Society. 

So  one  afternoon,  when  he  talked  with  the  Prior  after 
he  had  finished  his  day's  instruction,  he  said  he  would 
like  to  go  for  some  months  into  some  quiet  spot  that 
God  and  man  had  combined  to  hedge  about  with  sweet 
peace  and  silence  and  a  simple,  regular  life;  a  spot  where 
the  roar  of  the  world's  ocean  was  never  heard,  and 
from  which  the  tide  of  life  seemed  to  have  flowed  away 
forever.  The  Prior  told  him  of  many  places,  and  with 
Father  Gregory  he  visited  such  monastic  retreats  as 
lay  within  easy  distance  of  London.  Some  seemed  to 
him  unnecessarily  lax;  others,  like  the  Passionists,  aim- 
lessly severe;  Benedictines  and  Carmelites  and  Jesuits, 


176        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

he  went  among,  and  then  last  of  all  he  was  taken  to  a 
small  Dominican  settlement  or  monastery  of  the  Black 
Friars,  as  they  were  called  in  older  times. 

His  aesthetic  tastes,  which  his  new  life  had  excited 
within  him,  were  pleased  by  what  he  saw  there.  The 
long,  low  building,  with  two  great  wings  stretching  out 
through  lovely  terraced  gardens  and  framed  in  great 
trees,  pleased  him.  In  the  low  meadowland  that  was 
spread  like  a  verdant  carpet  to  the  grey  horizon  the  cows 
grazed  ankle-deep  in  the  lush  grass.  Here  and  there 
the  steeple  of  some  village  church,  or  the  whirling  arms 
of  a  windmill,  broke  the  sky  line,  while  in  the  north  the 
tender  sheen  of  a  sea  of  silver  betokened  the  where- 
abouts of  one  of  the  sleepiest  of  the  Norfolk  Broads. 
It  was  all  grey  and  green  and  very  quiet,  with  just  the 
white-robed  monks  moving  quietly  about  in  twos  against 
the  background  of  the  old  walled  gardens  and  the  low, 
straggling  house. 

"I  should  like  to  come  here,"  he  had  said  to  Father 
Gregory.  "Here  I  ought  to  find  peace  and  happiness; 
here  I  ought  to  be  able  to  think  calmly  of  things  that 
are  now  irritation  to  me.  When  I  am  christened  I  will 
come  to  this  place  and  be  a  novice  here,  subject  to  men 
older  and  wiser  than  myself.  I  will  try  and  begin  a  new 
life,  so  that  I  may  really  be  fit  for  Rosamund  when  the 
year  is  over." 

The  little  settlement  in  the  East  End,  which  laboured 
so  hard  among  such  loathsome  surroundings,  was  not 
astonished  that  the  new  convert  should  choose  so  fair  a 
spot  to  live  in.  It  was  to  them  the  haven  of  refuge,  to 
which  they  retired  when  the  storm  and  stress  of  their 
awful  work  was  finished,  and  where  sometimes  one  or 
other  of  them  went  to  gain  back  the  lost  health  and 


A   REASON  177 

broken  courage  which  had  succumbed  to  the  hideous 
circumstances  of  the  daily  life  they  had  taken  upon  them- 
selves. 

A  week  before  Rosamund  heard  the  news  Paul  was 
baptised  by  the  name  he  had  always  borne  in  the  world, 
into  the  church  he  had  chosen,  and  a  few  hours  after 
the  ceremony,  with  only  a  small  portmanteau  in  his 
hand,  he  set  out  for  Norfolk. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

A   RETREAT 

THE  flat,  dyked  country  was  flooded  with  the  crimson 
light  of  the  setting  sun  as  Paul  Carr  stepped  from  the 
train  at  a  little  wayside  Norfolk  station.  A  lazy  porter 
lolled  on  a  truck  in  the  shade,  and  the  stout  station- 
master,  having  seen  the  train  move  off  again,  pulled  off 
his  official  coat,  and  rolling  up  his  shirt  sleeves,  picked 
up  a  spade  and  resumed  his  interrupted  occupation  of 
gardening. 

Paul  gave  up  his  ticket  to  a  little  girl  who  stood  at 
the  wicket  gate,  and  picking  up  his  bag,  stepped  out 
into  the  road.  He  remembered  the  way,  so  he  did  not 
need  to  ask  for  directions,  and  as  there  was  no  need  to 
hurry,  he  walked  away  quite  slowly.  His  steps  first  led 
him  through  a  trim  village,  where  the  women,  gossiping 
at  their  gates,  drawled  their  words  and  laughed  the  long, 
deliberate  laugh  of  the  eastern  counties.  A  windmill 
and  a  church  bounded  the  village,  and  then  he  set  his 
foot  on  the  long,  dyked  road  which  was  edged  with 
pollard  willow  trees,  that  with  their  round,  clumped 
heads,  stood  like  a  stiff  row  of  sentinels  between  the 
roadway  and  the  grassy,  sunken  meadows.  High  up  in 
the  sky  that  was  paling  from  a  deep  blue  to  an  opales- 
cent grey,  a  lark  was  singing  its  evensong.  A  distant 
sheep  bell  sounded  hoarsely  on  the  evening  air  now  and 
then;  a  cart  rumbled  in  the  distance,  and  then  every- 
thing was  silent. 

178 


A   RETREAT  179 

Paul,  after  the  months  of  harassing  worry  and  doubt, 
the  glare  and  glitter  and  the  squalid  horror  of  London, 
felt  as  though  he  were  treading  the  pathway  to  heaven. 
The  air  was  very  warm,  yet,  coming  over  the  flat  country 
straight  from  the  sea,  smacked  of  soft,  foamy  waves. 
By-and-bye,  a  long  line  of  red  wall  wandered  like  a 
thread  across  the  green  country.  It  was  the  wall  of  the 
monastery  gardens. 

With  a  sigh  of  ineffable  happiness  Paul  rang  at  the 
gate,  which  was  opened  from  within  the  lodge  by  a 
spring.  As  he  passed  through  it,  it  shut  with  a  heavy 
crash  behind  him,  and  again  he  sighed,  for  he  felt  as 
though  behind  that  gate  lay  all  the  trouble  and  heart- 
bitterness  of  the  world.  He  crossed  a  meadow  or  two, 
and  then  passing  through  an  archway  in  a  brick  wall, 
found  himself  in  the  straggling  kitchen  garden,  and  not 
far  from  the  main  door  of  the  monastery.  This  entrance 
lay  in  the  centre  of  the  building,  with  the  long  wings 
stretched  out  on  either  side  of  it.  Some  of  the  upper 
.windows  were  a  little  open,  and  he  anticipated  with 
pleasure  the  coolness  and  freshness  of  the  simply-fur- 
nished rooms  within.  He  pulled  the  iron  handle  of  a 
great  bell  that  sounded  loudly  a  long  way  off.  He  was 
evidently  expected,  for  long  before  its  clanging  died 
away  the  door  was  flung  open  and  a  cheerful  Irishman 
in  a  white  cloth  cassock,  and  with  his  tonsure  covered  by 
a  small  black  zuchetto,  or  skull  cap,  opened  the  door  in 
wide  welcome.  He  was  a  lay  brother,  and  his  name  was 
Patrick.  He  greeted  Paul  with  a  broad  smile,  and  told 
him  that  the  novice  master,  whose  duty  it  was  to  receive 
and  take  entire  charge  of  the  novices,  was  waiting  for 
him  in  the  parlour. 

The  parlour  was  just  within  the  door.  It  was  pan- 
elled with  oak  that  had  grown  dark  with  age.  The 


I  So        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

wooden  floor  of  narrow  pitch-pine  boards  shone  like  a 
mirror  and  gave  off  a  scent  suggestive  of  beeswax  and 
infinite  cleanliness.  The  three  long  windows  were  opened 
to  the  flower  gardens,  which  sloped  away  from  the  house 
on  that  side  down  to  a  little  stream  that  ran  through 
the  grounds.  A  picture  of  St.  Dominic,  crudely  painted 
and  set  in  a  very  simple  frame,  hung  above  the  mantel- 
piece. Close  by  the  door  was  a  small  wooden  desk  with 
a  stool  before  it.  On  it  was  a  tall,  black  crucifix  with 
the  Christ  in  white  plaster.  Two  cheap  glass  vases, 
gaudily  painted,  held  some  white  lilies.  The  table  in 
the  centre  of  the  room  was  innocent  of  all  books  save  a 
"Life  of  St.  Dominic"  and  a  volume  of  sermons.  Half 
a  dozen  rush-bottomed  chairs  stood  with  formal  neatness 
round  the  room. 

As  Paul  was  ushered  in,  a  large,  stout  man  rose 
from  a  chair  in  the  furthest  corner.  He  closed  a  little 
book  that  he  had  been  reading  and  slipped  it  in  to  the 
pocket  of  his  cassock.  He  advanced  into  the  full  light 
and  greeted  Paul  kindly. 

"I  am  Father  Zadock,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  the 
novice  master.  I  trust  you  will  be  happy  here  and  gain 
such  consolations  as  you  may  wish  from  your  studies 
and  from  our  quiet  life." 

He  was  a  kind-looking  man,  with  a  rather  high  voice 
and  a  weak  chin.  Paul,  in  his  quick  fashion,  took  a 
fancy  to  him  at  once,  but  read  in  every  line  of  his  large, 
fleshy  face  and  soft  fat  hands  that  he  was  easy-going 
and  of  undecided  character. 

•  "To-night,"  said  Father  Zadock,  "you  will  sup  in  the 
guest  chamber.  You  will  see  your  fellow  novices  to-mor- 
row. The  Prior  will  also  receive  you  in  the  morning. 
Will  you  come  this  way  with  me?" 

JJe  walked  before  Paul  down  the  long  corridor,  the 


A   RETREAT  181 

walls  of  which  were  distempered  a  French  grey  colour. 
At  each  angle  of  the  walls,  pictures  of  saints  were 
roughly  painted  on  the  plaster.  A  stretch  of  cocoanut 
matting  ran  between  two  shining  lines  of  polished  boards. 
At  the  far  end  was  the  guest  chamber.  It  was  as 
severely  plain  as  the  parlour,  but  Paul,  whose  fastidious 
notions  even  his  religious  thirstings  could  not  entirely 
eliminate,  noticed  that  the  napery  laid  upon  the  small 
table  was  very  fine  and  white,  and  that  the  glass  and 
china  upon  which  his  supper  was  served  were  good,  if  of 
simple  form  and  decoration. 

An  ample  meal  was  brought  to  him,  well  cooked  and 
savoury,  and  as  he  ate  it  with  some  appetite,  Father 
Zadock  talked  to  him.  A  faint  surprise  struck  Paul  that 
the  good  man  did  not  lay  much  stress  upon  the  manner 
of  his  reception  into  the  Church,  nor  did  he  express 
particular  gratification  that  a  son  of  the  world  should  be 
content  for  a  time  to  submit  himself  and  the  order  of  his 
life  to  the  strict  discipline  of  a  religious  order.  Rather 
did  the  Father  ask  for  news,  interspersing  his  questions 
with  remarks  that  showed  he  was  not  badly  informed  on 
the  current  topics  of  the  day.  Once,  when  Paul  received 
some  question  of  his  with  frank  astonishment,  Father 
Zadock  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  shook  his  fat  sides 
with  hearty  laughter. 

"You  are  wondering  that  I  know  about  that,  I  sup- 
pose. Oh!  please  do  not  deny  it;  I  can  see  it  in  your 
face;  but  you  must  not  think  we  are  hermits  here.  We 
read  the  papers,  and  people  come  and  see  us,  and  we 
know  pretty  well  what  is  going  on." 

It  was  not  until  he  was  left  alone  in  his  room  that 
Paul  pondered  over  the  worthy  Father's  words,  and  even 
then  their  full  'significance  did  not  come  to  him,  for  he 
was  busy  spending  the  last  hour  of  daylight  in  reviewing 


182         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

his  surroundings.  He  had  been  led,  after  his  supper,  to 
that  wing  of  the  monastery  which  was  known  as  the 
Novitiate.  Here,  on  three  floors,  were  instructed,  fed, 
and  housed  the  novices  who  came  to  the  monastery  either 
to  prepare  for  the  oriesthood  or  to  retreat  some  time 
from  the  world. 

Paul's  room  was  one  of  many  off  a  long  corridor,  dis- 
tempered and  painted  like  the  one  downstairs.  At  the 
extreme  end  of  it  was  erected  an  altar  with  a  triptych 
above  it  and  bearing  a  crucifix  and  a  few  flowers.  Be- 
hind it  was  a  very  small  chapel,  to  which  the  novices 
might  repair  at  stated  times  for  private  prayer. 

His  own  room  was  small.  The  fast-setting  sun 
flooded  it  and  showed  in  one  flash  every  detail  of  the 
apartment.  It  was  about  ten  feet  square,  with  yellow 
painted  walls  and  a  bare  floor,  polished  like  those  he  had 
seen  elsewhere  in  the  house.  Opposite  the  door  was  the 
window;  it  was  a  lattice  and  was  set  in  an  embrasure 
that  was  deep  enough  to  form  a  seat.  There  was  no 
blind  to  the  window,  but  a  coloured  cotton  curtain  drew 
before  the  recess  at  night.  One  corner  of  the  room  was 
cut  across  by  a  deal  board,  on  which  was  a  basin,  a  soap 
dish,  and  other  toilet  necessaries.  There  was  one  chair, 
and  a  small  looking-glass  in  a  common  wooden  frame 
hung  flat  against  the  wall.  One  fine  piece  of  furniture 
only  broke  the  monotony  and  ugliness  of  the  room.  It 
was  a  small  cupboard  in  fine  old  oak,  black  with  age  and 
polished  by  centuries  of  use;  the  top  sloped  like  a  writ- 
ing desk,  and  it  suggested  to  Paul  many  happy  hours  of 
sympathetic  study. 

Just  inside  the  doorway  hung  a  little  plaster  crucifix 
and  a  shell  moulded  in  cheap  china,  which  held  the  holy 
water.  A  gas  bracket  of  plain  iron  jutted  out  from  the 
wall  not  far  from  the  bed,  which  was  made  of  three 


A   RETREAT  183 

planks  laid  across  trestles,  and  mitigated  only  to  the 
human  body  by  a  single  flock  mattress,  a  small  bolster, 
and  a  pillow.  Of  sheets  it  was  quite  innocent,  but  the 
two  blankets  and  pillow  slip  were  all  of  white  wool,  and 
a  great  counterpane  covered  it.  Three  slips  of  wood, 
held  together  by  a  worn  red  cord,  formed  the  bookcase 
that  hung  on  the  wall. 

As  the  door  shut  upon  Father  Zadock's  portly  form, 
Paul  felt  strangely  lonely.  Again,  a  self-conscious  sense 
of  astonishment  that  there  was  such  small  interest  taken 
in  the  arrival  of  a  wealthy  English  gentleman  who  had 
been  a  member  of  the  best  Society  in  London,  the  scion 
of  a  well-known  Protestant  family,  swept  over  him  and 
held  him  spellbound.  But  he  would  not  permit  himself 
to  cavil  at  his  reception.  The  men  who  lived  here  were 
above  worldly  considerations;  it  did  not  matter  to  them 
who  a  man  had  been;  they  would  only  consider  him  as 
he  was  to  be.  The  pasts  of  people  were  shut  outside  in 
the  road  by  the  heavy  wooden  gate;  it  was  only  their 
futures  that  concerned  the  good  Fathers. 

He  unpacked  his  small  bag,  wondering  if  on  the  mor- 
row he  would  be  allowed  to  keep  the  very  few  and  sim- 
ple articles  that  he  had  brought  with  him.  "Not  that  it 
matters,"  he  said  to  himself,  "for  I  shall  have  many 
other  things  to  think  of  here.  I  have  to  make  up  for  a 
lifetime  of  ignorance  and  idle  wrong-doing.  I  have  to 
wipe  out  the  past  and  prepare  for  a  fairer  future  with 
Rosamund.  Dear  Rosamund,  I  wonder  what  she  will 
say  when  she  knows  of  this?" 

He  walked  over  to  the  window  and  looked  out  across 
the  fields.  A  soft  white  mist  was  flowing  up  from  them, 
and  lying  in  light  wreaths  about  the  little  round-headed 
trees;  the  sheep  bell  still  rang  hoarsely  in  the  distance. 

"I  wonder,"  he  cried  to  the  rolling  mist  and  the  pale 


184        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

sky,  "if  I  am  really  such  a  coward;  if  I  am  afraid  to  tell 
her?  If  I  am  afraid  for  myself  or  for  her?  I  do  not 
quite  know.  She  is  so  brave  and  true,  so  broad-minded, 
so  large-hearted,  that  I  think  in  her  generosity  she  would 
not  have  thwarted  me  in  my  wish  to  find  grace.  I 
believe  in  my  own  heart  it  would  have  been  a  great 
grief  to  her  to  know  of  my  parents'  neglect,  and  yet — 
and  yet — if  I  believe  all  this  why  have  I  not  written  to 
her  and  told  her  everything?"  He  pulled  himself  up. 
''Paul  Carr,  you  are  a  coward;  you  are  afraid  of  yourself 
and  afraid  of  the  woman  you  love,  and  you  have  all  the 
time  intended  to  let  her  know  you  have  done  this  thing 
after  the  step  has  been  taken.  But  now  I  must  write  to 
her — I  will  write  to  her  and  ask  her  forgiveness.  Until 
I  have  done  that  I  shall  feel  as  though  I  had  not  been 
quite  fair  to  my  love." 

Some  one,  he  did  not  see  who,  came  in  and  lit  the  gas, 
and  then  slipped  silently  out  again.  For  a  moment 
Paul's  instinct  was  to  turn  and  say  the  night  was  yet  too 
young  to  need  artificial  light.  Then  he  checked  himself, 
and  remembered  that  doubtless  this  was  the  rule  of  the 
place.  But  he  lowered  the  light  a  little,  and  went  back 
to  the  window,  where  he  mused  a*d  dreamed  as  he 
watched  the  wreaths  of  mist  rise  and  fall  like  a  ghostly 
sea  over  the  low-lying  fields.  After  what  seemed  but  a 
few  minutes,  but  was  in  reality  half  an  hour,  a  loud  bell 
rang  in  the  corridor  outside.  He  did  not  move,  how- 
ever, until  some  moments  later  a  sharp  knock  came  to 
his  door,  and  a  voice  he  had  not  heard  before  said,  "You 
must  put  out  your  light. "  Silently  he  obeyed,  and  then, 
by  the  clear  radiance  of  the  rising  moon,  slowly 
undressed  and  prepared  for  bed. 

The  white  woolen  sheets  had  looked  inviting  enough, 
but  when  he  slipped  between  them  he  found  that  they 


A   RETREAT  185 

were  rough  and  coarse,  while  the  pillow,  after  his  head 
had  been  on  it  for  a  few  moments,  stung  and  burned  as 
though  filled  with  nettles.  He  was  almost  despairing  of 
being  able  to  rest,  when  he  remembered  that  in  his  bag 
he  had  a  few  silk  handkerchiefs.  Finding  one,  he  spread 
it  beneath  his  face,  which  was  already  quite  sore,  and 
then  quickly  lost  himself  and  his  doubts  in  dreams. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

ROSAMUND   READS  A   LETTER 

THE  first  news  that  Rosamund  received  from  Paul  was 
forwarded  to  her  in  Scotland  from  "The  Hurst."  She 
recognised  his  handwriting  at  once,  and  in  a  queer, 
illogical  way  was  almost  surprised  to  find  that  it  was  not 
at  all  altered  as  she  had  somehow  expected  it  might  have 
been.  The  letter  filled  two  large  sheets  of  paper  and 
was  very  closely  written,  the  only  break  in  the  lines 
being  made  by  a  tiny  sketch  of  the  monastery  that  he 
had  put  in  one  corner. 

"My  dearest  Rosamund,"  it  began,  "if  you  were  any 
other  woman  than  you  are,  if  you  were  not  the  truest 
and  the  most  loving  and  the  most  sweet  natured  of  your 
sex,  I  should  scarcely  have  dared  to  write  to  you  after  so 
long  a  silence.  The  summer  was  in  its  fullest  beauty 
when  we  last  met  and  when  we  parted,  and  now  already 
autumn  has  set  her  palette  with  brown  and  purple,  yel- 
low and  gold,  and  passes  the  clear,  cool  nights  in  paint- 
ing the  great  clumps  of  trees,  the  low  shrubberies,  and 
the  creepers  that  surround  this  place.  When  I  look  out 
of  my  window,  at  early  dawn,  I  see  the  mists  lying  thick 
and  white  as  carded  wool  over  the  dyked  meadows.  In 
a  few  days  September  will  be  here,  and  the  ring  of  the 
guns  shooting  down  the  little  brown  birds  among  the 
fields  will  sound  all  day  long  outside  the  high  red  wall 
that  makes  this  spot  a  haven  from  the  turbulent  world 
without. 

1 86 


ROSAMUND  READS  A   LETTER  187 

"I  wonder  where  you  are  now.  Not  in  London,  of 
course,  though  I  send  this  letter  to  you  there — and 
you  would  scarcely  yet  be  settled  in  Midshire  at  the 
Manor.  I  like  best  to  think  of  you  as  being  in  Scotland, 
pressing  down  the  heather  with  your  light  step,  in  your 
dainty  tam-o'shanter  with  its  scarlet  feather  and  those 
workmanlike  short  skirts  of  yours,  in  the  wearing  of 
which  you  have  learned  to  move  and  walk  as  no  other 
woman  can  do.  That  is  how  I  picture  you  to  myself, 
out  in'  the  fresh,  free  air,  with  the  life-blood  glowing 
through  your  fine  skin  and  your  big  eyes  radiant  with 
the  reflected  sunshine  and  the  clear  blue  light  of  the 
northern  sky. 

"And  I  have  an  instinct,  too,  Rosamund,  that  you 
think  of  me  sometimes,  yet  it  can  only  be  in  a  vague 
way.  You  do  not  know  where  I  am  or  what  I  am  doing. 
I  wonder  if  any  one  told  you  of  the  step  I  took  last  July. 
It  was  only  two  months  ago,  and  yet  it  seems  as  though 
a  whole  cycle  of  time  had  passed  since  then.  I  wonder 
if  you  heard  that  I  had  been  received  into  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church,  and  if  so,  what  you  thought?  My  dear, 
I  was  very  unhappy,  very  broken,  and  very  lonely.  Even 
you  were  denied  to  me,  and  men  are  at  best,  with  all 
their  pride  and  all  their  vaunted  brains  and  intelligence, 
such  poor  things  that  they  must  lean  on  some  other  but 
themselves.  So  it  is  that  when  woman,  the  natural  sup- 
port of  man,  is  taken  away,  he  turns  to  God.  I  only 
followed  the  instincts  of  human  nature,  and  in  doing  so 
discovered  that  I  had  really  no  God  to  turn  to. 

"An  old  friend  of  mine  helped  me  then,  and  it  was  his 
hand  indirectly  that  led  me  out  of  the  darkness  into  the 
light.  Were  you  very  shocked?  I  am  sure  that  your 
family  was,  for  it  is  difficult  for  people  who  have  the 
ideas  of  centuries  bred  in  them,  suddenly  to  uproot  or 


1 88        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

change  the  thing  that  has  become  a  vital  part  of  their 
natures.  But  I  scarcely  think  you  are  like  that.  Con- 
vention, as  the  world  knows  it,  has  never  influenced  you 
much.  You  have  lived  a  freer,  less  artificial  life  than 
the  average  woman  of  your  order.  You  have  never 
weakened  your  mind  with  foolish  reading  and  light  talk. 
At  least  I  hope,  if  at  first  you  were  startled  at  the  step 
I  had  taken,  that  your  wise  judgment,  backed  by  the 
affection  I  know  you  bear  me,  has  exonerated  me  long 
ago  from  any  blame  you  may  have  been  inclined  to  lay 
at  my  door. 

"Once  again,  I  wonder  what  you  think  of  me  now 
that  you  know  I  am  in  a  monastery.  I  am  half  afraid 
that  you  will  think  I  have  carried  my  new  religion  too 
far,  and  that  I  am  saving  my  own  happiness  and  insuring 
peace  for  myself  at  your  expense.  This  is  not  so,  Rosa- 
mund, believe  me.  I  have  come  here  for  peace,  and  I 
have  come  here  to  learn  how  to  be  happy,  but  it  is  only 
with  a  view  of  securing  a  more  perfect  life  in  the  future 
for  us  both.  What  that  life  may  be  I  cannot  yet  decide. 
Sometimes  I  think  that  the  love  of  man  for  woman  is  not 
everything,  that  there  are  other  Sacraments  besides 
those  of  marriage;  that  more  good  may  be  done  by 
quietly  quitting  one's  place  in  the  outer  world  and  set- 
ting oneself  apart  to  pray  for  the  welfare  of  those  one  had 
left  behind.  But  of  this  I  am  not  yet  sure.  I  desire  to 
be  convinced  that  these  things  are  true,  and  I  yet  regard 
them  with  the  eye  of  disbelief.  They  tell  me  here  that 
as  the  weeks  go  by  I  shall  become  more  firm  and  more 
set  in  my  purpose.  Of  that  I  am  not  certain,  either,  but 
from  time  to  time  I  will  let  you  know  if  what  they  claim 
to  be  the  true  life  of  a  Christian  proves  to  me  to  be  so. 
At  present  I  am  in  a  state  of  unrest.  One  hour  I  yearn 
for  the  world,  and  in  the  next  I  hate  it.  At  dawn  the 


ROSAMUND  READS  A   LETTER  189 

chapel  with  the  prayers  and  the  dim  light,  the  faint 
odour  of  sanctity,  the  soft  music  and  the  peace,  prevail 
upon  me  to  believe  that  here,  and  here  only,  is  God  to 
be  found.  In  the  evening,  under  identical  circum- 
stances, my  whole  manhood  revolts,  and  my  body  cries 
out  for  the  freedom  that  my  soul  will  not  permit  it  to 
snatch. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  a  little  of  the  life  here?  Perhaps  it 
will  help  you  to  form  an  opinion  of  my  various  moods 
just  now,  which  even  to  myself  are  sometimes  inexplic- 
able. 

"It  was  an  August  evening  when  I  came  and  was 
received  as  a  novice,  a  mere  pupil  in  the  profession  of 
religion,  by  the  monk  who  has  the  care  and  ordering  of 
the  lives  of  such  who  are  as  I  am.  This  is  a  lovely  place, 
and  the  wing  that  is  set  apart  for  the  novices  is  clothed 
with  creepers  and  small-leaved  glistening  ivy.  The  view 
from  my  little  window  is  miles  and  miles  of  flat  country 
towards  a  horizon  which  is  but  slightly  broken  by  the  low 
undulations  that  lie  about  the  town  of  Stamford.  The 
rooms  that  are  on  the  other  side  of  the  corridor  from 
mine  look  over  a  country  road.  Now  and  then,  in  the 
evening,  a  farm  cart  rumbles  by  carrying  a  load  of  weary 
bumpkins  and  supplies  from  the  nearest  village.  That 
is  all  of  outside  life  to  be  seen,  and  yet  the  novices 
whose  rooms  look  out  that  way  tell  me  that  they  spend 
hours  crouching  within  the  deep  embrasures  of  their  win- 
dows, behind  the  little  curtain  that  runs  across  each 
alcove  only  to  catch  a  view  or  an  echo  of  strange  faces 
and  passing  wheels. 

"Our  life  is  very  simple,  and  the  monotony  of  it 
sweeps  away  all  marks  of  time.  There  is  nothing  here 
but  day  and  night,  and  one  so  overlaps  the  other  that 
each  seems  without  end.  When  I  first  came  it  used  to 


190         THE  PASSION   OF  ROSAMUND   KEITH 

be  dawn  when  we  first  rose  for  Matins,  which  are  at  four. 
Now  that  the  nights  are  lengthening,  it  is  more  diffi- 
cult to  wake  and  rise  from  bed,  and,  after  having  lit  the 
little  taper  which  we  all  carry  in  our  pockets,  to  pass 
quickly  from  one  cell  to  another,  rousing  the  occupant 
of  each,  and  lighting  the  gas  jets.  That  duty  over — and 
it  is  one  each  novice  takes  in  turn — one  goes  downstairs, 
and  crossing  the  cloisters,  which  in  these  early  autumn 
mornings  are  sometimes  very  keen,  goes  into  the  chapel. 
The  little  lamps  that  burn  always  before  the  statue  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin  are  a  guide  to  the  altar  where  the 
candles  are  set  ready  to  be  lit.  That  done,  one  has  to 
go  to  the  belfry.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  that  lead  up 
and  away  into  an  unseen  distance  there  always  stands  a 
lantern  ready  to  be  lighted.  There  are  three  bells  at 
the  head  of  the  staircase,  and  it  is  quite  an  art  to  ring 
them.  They  are  started  with  one  foot,  then  with  the 
right  hand  and  then  with  the  left.  Before  the  echo  of 
the  little  peal  has  died  away,  one  is  out  again  in  the 
cloisters  ringing  the  sanctuary  bell  nine  times.  Then 
follows  the  shuffling  of  feet,  and  the  novices,  sleepy-eyed 
and  yawning,  come  down  in  pairs  and  walk  to  their 
places  in  the  choir  of  the  chapel.  The  monks  follow 
after  in  such  order  as  best  pleases  them. 

"When  Matins  are  over  most  of  us  go  back  to  bed 
again,  but  I  have  spent  many  of  the  fairer  mornings  out 
in  the  garden  watching  the  sun  rise  and  the  silver  mist 
float  away  like  torn  shreds  of  gauze  over  the  tree  tops. 
Morning  after  morning  I  have  heard  the  lark's  first  song 
and  watched  the  bees  come  out  and  the  butterflies  settle 
and  feed  on  the  dew-laden  roses. 

"Two  hours  later  we  all  meet  again  in  the  choir  for 
'Prime,'  and  the  day  of  study  and  prayer,  and  of  such 
intercourse  and  relaxation  as  are  permitted,  begins.  At 


ROSAMUND  READS  A   LETTER  191 

'prime'  we  first  see  the  lay  brothers.  They  are  good, 
worthy  men  who  have  given  up  their  pleasure  and  lives, 
as  men  of  their  class  know  such  things,  for  hard  work, 
implicit  obedience,  and  endless  service  in  the  Church's 
cause.  At  a  quarter  past  seven  we  breakfast  in  silence. 
At  none  of  our  meals  are  we  allowed  to  speak,  save  at 
the  great  feast  of  St.  Dominic,  and  on  such  rare  occasions 
as  the  Bishop's  visit  to  the  monastery.  Breakfast  is  the 
simplest  of  our  meals.  We  have  bread  and  coffee  with 
sugar  and  milk;  on  Sunday  we  have  butter.  It  is  put 
up  into  very  long,  thin  rolls,  and  it  is  quite  an  art  so  to 
help  one's  self  as  to  get  enough  of  it.  It  is  strange  to 
see  how  the  little  characteristics  of  selfishness  and  greed- 
iness come  out  over  such  a  trifle,  and  how  all  'the  reli- 
gion in  the  world  does  not  seem  to  prevent  a  man  from 
taking  more  than  his  fair  share  of  a  thing  he  likes  to  eat. 

"At  nine  o'clock  we  repeat  the  Office  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  Mary,  and  the  time  from  then  to  mid-day  is 
either  passed  in  study,  in  private  prayer,  or  in  walking 
out  in  solemn  silence  in  the  gardens.  I  think  that  men 
feel  better  when  they  are  alone  with  nature.  The  gar- 
dens here  are  very  beautiful,  and  I  never  saw  such  roses, 
and  it  is  in  looking  at  them  that  one- acknowledges  the 
greatness  of  God.  We  go  to  the  choir  for  a  few  minutes 
before  dinner,  which  is  at  a  quarter  past  twelve. 

"The  refectory,  where  all  our  meals  are  taken,  is'  a 
large,  well-lit  room,  with  plain,  distempered  walls,  only 
broken  here  and  there  by  the  picture  of  a  saint  or  the 
presentment  of  some  miracle.  A  great  fixed  seat  goes 
all  round  the  room  and  a  narrow  table  is  in  front  of  that. 
The  Prior  sits  at  the  head  in  an  elbow  chair  and  next  to 
him  is  the  Sub-prior.  Both  of  them  are  kindly,  good 
men,  really  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  religion  they 
profess  and  deeply  anxious  that  others  should  see  things 


192         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

with  their  eyes.  The  Fathers  and  monks  sit  in  their 
order  of  seniority  all  down  the  table  on  alternate  sides. 
Then  come  the  novices,  who  are  placed  in  the  order  as 
they  have  entered  the  monastery.  Such  lay  brothers 
who  are  not  engaged  in  household  duties,  which  they  all 
take  in  turn,  sit  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table.  We  are 
served  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest,  and  the  tables 
are  cleared  in  the  reverse  order.  In  the  centre  of  the 
room  stands  a  desk,  at  which  the  monks  in  turn  read  a 
book,  either  of  religious  instruction  or  the  life  of  one  of 
the  saints. 

"You  are  a  woman,  and  therefore  will  like  details,  so 
to*  please  you  I  will  tell  you  what  we  have  to  eat. 

"The  soup  is  made  from  vegetables,  but  sometimes 
we  have  a  course  of  sardines  or  anchovies  served  with 
toast.  Many  kinds  of  fish  come  next.  All  are  good  and 
cooked  to  perfection,  though  very  rarely  is  it  fried. 
Quantities  of  vegetables  are  served  to  us,  and  various 
sorts  of  pastries  and  pies  and  fruit.  Those  who  prefer 
preserves  can  have  marmalade  with  blanc  mange.  Cheese 
and  celery,  with  bread  and  one  glass  of  beer,  finish  our 
meal.  I  have  not  as  yet  eaten  other  food  than  this,  for 
the  rules  of  the  order  ordain  that  no  meat  shall  be  served 
in  the  refectory,  and  that  those  who  are  in  health  shall 
observe  the  above  diet. 

"But  near  to  where  we  dine  is  a  small  room  called 
the  meat  room.  Here  the  soup  is  made  from  meat,  and 
joints  and  game  are  daily  served.  Twice  a  week  and  on 
Sundays  all  novices,  unless  they  are  in  good  health  or 
desire  to  abstain,  are  obliged  to  dine  in  this  room,  and 
the  Fathers  themselves  who  are  preaching  or  teaching, 
and  all  those  who  are  in  poor  health  or  are  engaged  in  a 
deep  course  of  study,  are  allowed  to  go  there.  Conver- 
sation is  permitted,  and  it  must  be  very  cheerful  in  there 


ROSAMUND   READS  A  LETTER  193 

and  bright,  for  I  often  hear  loud  voices  and  much  laugh- 
ter, but  I  mean  to  keep  from  it  as  long  as  I  can,  for  my 
health  is  good,  and  the  mood  for  companionship  and  con- 
versation very  seldom  comes  to  me  now. 

"I  do  not  want  you,  Rosamund,  to  think  of  me  as 
being  sad  or  in  poor  health;  I  never  was  stronger  in  my 
life.  All  my  thoughts  and  instincts  make  for  the  best, 
and  I  know  that  I  am  happier  here,  where  I  am  merely 
called  Brother  Paul,  where  no  one  knows  who  I  really 
am  or  anything  about  me,  than  I  should  be  outside.  If 
I  were,  in  the  world  I  should  eat  out  my  heart  that  I 
could  not  be  with  you,  and  a  summer  in  Norway  or 
climbing  in  Switzerland  would  seem  to  me  merely  an 
exile  which  would  grow  to  be  a  purgatory. 

"You  see  I  am  nearly  at  the  end  of  my  paper.  We 
have  to  ask  Father  Zadock,  the  novice  master,  a  good, 
kind  soul,  for  writing  materials.  It  is  one  of  the  petty 
rules  that-  irks  a  little,  for  one  is  only  given  a  single 
sheet  of  paper  at  a  time  and  has  to  quibble  to  get 
another.  I  managed  to  get  two  to-day,  and  dare  not  ask 
for  a  third.  When  this  letter  is  finished  I  must  take  it  to 
Father  Zadock  unsealed,  but  he  is  a  gentleman;  he  will 
not  read  it. 

"Will  you  write  to  me  and  tell  me  of  yourself  and  if 
you  are  angry  with  me  or  pleased?  I  have  a  feeling  that 
you  will  be  neither.  I  pray  that  you  will  regard  my 
action  as  I  want  you  to  do — merely  a  way  of  finding 
patience  and  content  until  we  may  meet  again.  May 
God  bless  you.  PAUL." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

A  RIVER  REVERIE 

PAUL'S  first  letter  was  a  great  shock  to  Rosamund. 
Since  the  day  when  Lily  Baumer  had  told  her  that  her 
betrothed  husband  had,  out  of  conviction,  become  a 
Roman  Catholic,  and  retired  into  a  monastery  for  a  period 
of  meditation  and  prayer,  she  had  spent  many  anxious 
hours  in  viewing  what  even  now  seemed  to  her  a  most 
strange  action.  But  out  of  her  own  simple  faith  she  had 
persuaded  herself  that  it  had  been  the  voice  of  God  that 
had  called  to  him  to  take  this  step.  She  had  told  the 
news  to  her  uncle  with  bated  breath  and  a  look  that  her 
face  might  have  worn  if  she  had  been  announcing  the 
death  of  a  dear  friend.  Man  of  the  world  as  he  was,  and 
viewing  things  from  a  wider  ground  than  his  niece  could 
do,  'he  also  experienced  a  feeling  of  shock  at  the  intelli- 
gence. He  had  always  met  Paul  Carr  in  the  hunting- 
field  or  in  the  ball-room,  bicycling  at  break-neck  speed 
down  a  quiet  country  road,  or  lounging  in  his  stall  at  the 
opera.  He  had  looked  upon  him  as  a  very  fair  specimen 
of  the  average  young  English  gentleman.  If  he  had  had 
a  son  of  his  own  he  would  have  been  quite  satisfied  for 
him  to  be  as  Paul  was — well-mannered,  well-spoken, 
good-looking,  and  healthy-minded. 

That  a  young  man  of  Paul  Carr's  apparently  unemo- 
tional temperament  and  quiet  common-sense  should  sud- 
denly give  himself  over — literally  body  and  soul — to  a 
Church  which  relied  too  much,  as  he  thought,  on  outward 

194 


A  RIVER  REVERIE  195 

ceremony  and  sentimental  show,  he  could  not  under- 
stand. He  could  appreciate  a  woman  doing  such  a 
thing — many  of  them  who  were  soft  and  weak,  nervous, 
hysterical  creatures  who  were  soothed  by  the  embroid- 
eries on  a  vestment  and  exalted  by  a  well-arranged 
procession.  As  in  duty  bound  he  had  spoken  of  the 
matter  to  Margot  Kerquham,  and  could  scarcely  help 
echoing  her  heartfelt  thanks  that  the  strange  step  had 
been  taken  before  the  rest  of  the  family  had  been  made 
aware  of  the  engagement  between  Paul  and  Rosamund. 

"The  earl  would  be  horrified,"  Mrs.  Kerquham  had 
said,  "while  as  to  the  aunts,  I  cannot  imagine  what  they 
would  say." 

Rosamund,  having  done  her  duty  as  she  felt  it,  did 
not  mention  Paul's  name  again  in  the  family  circle,  but 
she  thought  of  him  often,  and  never  resisted  the  tempta- 
tion to  pray  for  him  every  night  as  she  might  have 
prayed  for  the  soul  of  some  one  who  was  unregenerate, 
or  for  a  little  child.  And  now  this  letter — his  letter — 
had  followed  her  from  London  up  to  the  Towers  in  Scot- 
land, where  the  whole  Kerquham  family  were  assembled 
together  under  Lord  Kilbeggie's  ancestral  roof — endur- 
ing what  Laura  always  called  the  yearly  penance  for 
their  sins. 

Rosamund  did  not  open  her  letter  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  but  slipped  it  into  her  lap,  determined  to  wait  until 
she  was  away  from  all  prying  eyes  in  her  favourite  nook 
at  the  head  of  the  glen,  a  cool  retreat  where  she  spent 
most  of  her  time  when  at  the  Towers. 

It  was  nothing  more  than  a  strange  coincidence  that 
her  great-uncle,  the  earl,  who  was  possessed  of  a  gaunt, 
bony  frame  and  a  long,  thin  head  fringed  with  scant 
white  hair,  happened  to  read  aloud  that  morning  from 
the  day-old  newspaper  which  came  from  Edinburgh, 


196        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

that  the  son  of  an  old  friend  of  his  had  just  "gone  over 
to  Rome."  Lady  Sophia  Kerquham  and  Lady  Charlotte 
Lundy,  who  was  also  on  a  visit  to  their  brother,  laid 
down  their  knives  and  forks  in  amazement,  as  the  old 
man,  after  reading  out  the  news,  dashed  down  his  fist 
upon  the  table  and  cried  angrily: 

"The  power  of  these  pestilent  Priests  grows  every 
day.  Fancy  one  of  that  clan  being  caught  by  their 
Popish  mummeries." 

"It  will  kill  his  mother,"  said  Lady  Sophia,  shaking 
her  head  ominously  over  her  coffee-cup.  "The  only 
comfort  that  she  can  find  is  that  his  father  is  dead.  He 
was  a  staunch  supporter  of  the  Church  of  Scotland,  and 
it  would  have  broken  his  heart." 

"If  he  had  been  a  son  of  mine,  I  would  have  broken 
his  head,"  cried  the  old  earl  in  impotent  anger. 

"I  would  rather  that  my  Hamish  married  a  ballet 
girl  than  become  a  Roman  Catholic,"  said  Lady  Char- 
lotte, drawing  herself  up. 

Lady  Sophia  shuddered  at  such  a  fearful  alternative, 
and  Lord  Kilbeggie  tapped  his  plate  irritably. 

"Charlotte,  Charlotte,  you  do  not  know  what  you  are 
saying.  Heaven  forfend  that  any  one  of  our  blood 
should  ever  do  either  the  one  or  the  other.  The  priests 
are  bad  enough,  but  I  am  not  sure  that  those  dancing 
women  are  not  worse." 

Mrs.  Kerquham,  who  always  carried  the  respect  for 
her  husband's  relations  to  an  exaggerated  degree,  ven- 
tured to  interpose. 

"It  is  a  shocking  thing,  as  you  say,  but  for  my  part 
I  think  that  for  a  young  man  to  go  on  the  turf  is  quite 
as  bad." 

Lord  Kilbeggie  looked  across  the  table  from  under 
his  white  eyebrows. 


A  RIVER  REVERIE  197 

"Niece  Margot,  you  had  best  be  holding  your  tongue. 
The  world  has  spoilt  you,  or  you  would  not  talk  about 
racing  and  betting  and  all  such  devil's  inventions  in  any 
house  of  mine." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  returned  confusedly  to  the  study  of 
her  plate.  Honor,  who  was  ready  to  argue  with  her 
mother  on  most  points,  varied  the  proceedings  now  by 
glaring  at  her  great-uncle.  Laura  tittered  in  the  aimless 
way  she  affected  when  the  conversation  was  either  bor- 
ing her  or  beyond  her  comprehension.  Rosamund  felt 
her  own  bright  colour  fading  from  her  cheeks.  If  they 
all  said  these  dreadful  things  about  a  mere  distant 
acquaintance  who  had  changed  his  religion,  what  would 
they  think  if  they  knew  that  she  had  at  that  moment  in 
her  possession  a  letter  dated  from  a  monastery  and  writ- 
ten by  a  man  who  wore  a  monastic  habit? 

A  girlish  dread  of  being  caught  and  questioned  about 
her  precious  missive  made  her  slip  out  of  the  room  with 
her  cousin  Laura  before  the  rest  of  the  party. 

"I  am  sorry  to  see  Rosamund  growing  lax  in  her  man- 
ners,"  commented  Lady  Charlotte,  rather  severely,  as  the 
girls'  footsteps  died  away  in  the  bare  stone  hall. 

"Rosamund  is  going  fishing,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham, 
ever  ready  to  stand  up  for  his  favourite.  "And  she  told 
Jock  to  be  ready  for  her  at  the  Water's  Meet  at  nine 
o'clock." 

"Manners  should  come  before  an  unladylike  sport," 
said  Lady  Charlotte,  sternly,  while  the  earl  mumbled  as 
he  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table  that  such  things 
as  duty  and  politeness  from  the  young  to  their  elders 
had  become  dead  letters  since  his  day. 

Out  in  the  hall  Rosamund  busied  herself  by  pulling 
on  her  tam-o'shanter  and  a  pair  of  thick  gloves,  and  see- 
ing that  her  rod  and  flies  were  in  order  before  she 


198        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

started.  Laura  sauntered  over  to  the  open  doorway 
and  stretched  her  arms  wide. 

"Heigh-ho!"  she  cried.  "Here  is  another  ghastly 
day  begun." 

"It  is  a  lovely  morning,"  said  Rosamund,  coming  to 
her  side  and  looking  first  down  the  glen  where  the  trout 
stream  rushed  and  swirled,  and  then  up  to  the  moors 
where  the  flying  clouds  still  made  a  delicate  tracery  like 
lace  above  the  purple  heather. 

"Oh!  it's  all  very  well  for  you,"  pouted  Laura. 
"You  seem  to  find  some  fun  in  tearing  all  over  the 
place  with  a  shock-headed  gillie  at  your  heels.  What 
you  are  made  of,  I  don't  know.  When  you  are  not  fish- 
ing you  are  clambering  all  over  those  dreadful  moors 
with  their  hard  stones  and  hateful,  scrubby  heather." 

"Oh!  Laura,  how  can  you!  It  is  quite  lovely  up 
there,"  expostulated  Rosamund.  "Why,  yesterday 
evening  as  I  was  coming  down  the  hill  it  all  looked  as 
though  it  were  covered  with  purple  plush.  The  sun 
caught  it,  and  it  shimmered  with  colour — and  smelt — oh! 
so  sweet. ' ' 

"Well,  you  may  like  it,"  grumbled  Laura,  shrugging 
her  shoulders.  "All  I  know  is  that  it  scratches  my 
shoes  to  pieces  and  makes  me  ache  all  over.  One  has 
to  step  like  a  well-trained  horse,  up  to  one's  nose,  to 
get  about  among  the  stuff." 

Rosamund  laughed  as  she  looked  down  at  Laura's 
slender  feet,  which  were  thrust  into  narrow,  high-heeled 
slippers. 

"My  dear,  you  will  walk  about  in  such  ridiculous 
things,"  she  said.  "Of  course  you  get  your  shoes 
scratched  and  your  ankles,  too,  when  you  go  out  in 
flimsy,  low-cut  affairs." 

"Well,    if  you  think  I  am  going  to  wear  great,   big 


A   RIVER  REVERIE  199 

horrid  boots  with  no  heels  and  no  shape,  you  are  mis- 
taken," cried  Laura,  rudely.  "I  would  not  make  such 
a  fright  of  myself  for  anything.  I  would  sooner  sit  in 
the  house  forever  than  be  obliged  to  put  such  things  on 
before  I  could  go  out." 

Rosamund  peeped  down  at  her  own  sensibly  shod 
feet. 

"Of  course  they  are  not  pretty,"  she  admitted  cheer- 
fully, "but  then  you  see  one  doesn't  dress  for  effect  up 
in  the  Highlands.  You  would  be  so  much  better,  Laura, 
if  you  came  out  and  had  some  air  instead  of  always  stop- 
ping in  the  house." 

"You  may  think  yourself  lucky  that  I  do  not  stay  in 
bed,  for  there  is  nothing  to  get  up  for.  Why  one  is 
obliged  to  come  to  such  a  hateful  place  as  this  I  don't 
know.  As'  to  Uncle  Kilbeggie  and  the  aunts,  they  get 
more  impossible  every  year.  Did  you  hear  what  they 
were  saying  last  night  about  the  way  my  hair  was 
dressed?  It  was  positively  impertinent  the  remarks  they 
made." 

"Of  course,  dear,  they  are  not  very  much  up  in  the 
fashions  about  here,"  said  Rosamund,  soothingly,  "and 
your  head  was  just  the  least  little  bit  over-smart  for  a 
quiet  family  party." 

"Smart  or  not  smart,  they  are  a  lot  of  horrid  old  peo- 
ple, and  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why  we  are  afflicted  with 
them.  Thank  goodness!  it  is  only  for  another  week, 
and  then  we  go  to  our  own  place  and  can  have  our  own 
friends." 

From  within  the  dining-room  came  the  sound  of  the 
pushing  back  of  chairs  and  the  tread  of  feet.  Rosa- 
mund, afraid  of  being  caught  and  delayed,  stepped  out 
on  to  the  wide  flight  of  grey  stone  steps. 

"Well,  I  must  be  off  or  Jock  will  be  tired  of  wait- 


200        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

ing,"  she  cried,  slinging  her  creel  over  one  shoulder  and 
putting  her  rod  over  the  other.  "Wish  me  luck,  Laura!" 

"Shan't  do  anything  of  the  kind,"  said  Laura.  "I 
am  sick  to  death  of  salmon." 

A  few  yards  from  the  house  Rosamund  plunged  into 
the  very  heart  of  the  glen  which  cleft  the  Highlands  just 
there  and  made  an  evergreen  wound  in  the  deep  bosom 
of  the  purple  hills.  Turning  sharply  to  the  left,  she 
went  up  a  narrow,  rough  path  that  overhung  the  brawl- 
ing stream.  It  ran  straight  up  the  glen  to  where  there 
was  an  open  space  among  the  trees  and  a  deep  trout 
pool  famous  for  its  fish  and  for  the  sport  that  could  be 
got  there.  The  gillie  was  waiting  for  her,  and  took  the 
rod  from  her  hands  directly  she  came  up,  saying  it  was 
a  perfect  morning  for  sport  and  that  she  ought  to  do 
well  to-day.  But  Rosamund's  hand  was  in  her  pocket, 
and  her  fingers  were  clasped  round  the  letter  that  lay 
there. 

"I  shall  not  fish  this  morning,  Jock,"  she  said.  "You 
can  go.  I  think  Mr.  Kerquham  may  want  you.  I  may 
try  a  cast  later  on  in  the  day;  if  so,  I  can  manage  by 
myself." 

The  reluctant  Jock  went  his  way  down  the  narrow 
path,  leaving  Rosamund  alone  to  enjoy  the  luxury  of 
Paul's  first  letter.  Like  a  child  that  has  some  special 
dainty  on  its  plate  which  it  keeps  to  the  last,  she  teased 
herself  with  enforced  deliberation.  Very  slowly  she  put 
her  fishing  basket  on  the  ground  and  laid  her  rod  beside 
it.  Then,  with  the  calmest  deliberation,  she  looked 
about  for  a  comfortable  stone  or  mossy  knoll,  where  she 
might  sit  at  her  ease.  Just  above  her  was  a  group  of 
alders  growing,  and  their  roots,  twining  into  the  stony 
earth,  made  a  natural  chair.  The  sunshine  glinted 
through  the  leaves  and  cast  a  golden  pattern  over  the 


A    RIVER  REVERIE  2OI 

scant  grass  and  clumps  of  moss.  She  walked  towards 
the  little  knoll  and  carefully  settled  herself  into  it.  Then 
she  took  off  her  hat,  and  pushing  back  the  heavy  hair 
from  her  forehead,  drew  out  the  letter  and  studied  the 
envelope.  After  quite  five  minutes  she  broke  the  seal. 

A  smile  was  on  her  face  as  she  did  so,  but  before  she 
unfolded  the  two  closely  written  pages  she  compressed 
the  corners  of  her  mouth;  for  in  a  flash  it  came  to  her 
that  it  was  no  love  letter  that  she  was  going  to  read,  no 
honey  sweet  phrases  of  love  and  burning  desires.  It 
would  be  a  chronicle  of  aspirations  and  fulfillments,  a 
record  of  the  doubts  and  hopes  of  a  man  who  had  taken 
the  tremendous  step  of  changing  one  religion  for 
another  in  the  wish  to  find  true  happiness  and  peace. 
With  a  face  that  was  grave  to  sadness  she  ventured  to 
approach  such  an  outpouring  of  the  soul  as  she  felt  the 
letter  must  contain. 

She  unfolded  the  sheets  and  began  to  read  slowly 
and  steadily,  as  though  each  word,  however  trivial,  held 
a  value  of  its  owri  in  her  mind.  When  at  length  she 
had  read  to  the  last  page  and  let  the  paper  fall  into  her 
lap,  she  raised  her  eyes  that  were  full  of  unshed  tears, 
while  her  heart  ached  with  the  sense  of  pain  and  yearning 
that  comes  to  those  who  read  the  words  of  one  long  lost. 
Two  large  drops  fell,  pattering  on  the  paper  she  held  in 
her  trembling  fingers.  She  passed  her  hands  several 
times  across  her  eyes  before  she  could  see  to  read  the 
letter  through  a  second  time. 

Then  it  was  that  a  vague  sense  of  disappointment 
mingled  with  her  first  sorrowful  joy.  "Why,"  she  asked 
herself,"does  he  tell  me  so  little  in  so  much?  He  writes 
to  me  of  the  chapel  and  of  the  little  sanctuary  for  private 
prayers,  but  he  does  not  tell  me  of  his  thoughts;  he  does 
not  even  say  whether  he  is  happy.  He  only  tells  me 


202         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

that  he  eats  so  much  fish  and  bread ;  he  paints  for 
me  the  rooms  and  the  furniture.  The  three  words,  'I  am 
happy,"  or  'I  am  content,'  would  have  been  enough  for 
me.  I  only  want  to  think  of  him  that  way." 

But  after  a  time  the  sweetness  of  her  nature  and  the 
charity  of  her  disposition  overcame  her  first  thrill  of  dis- 
satisfaction. 

"He  has  only  written  what  he  thinks  will  please 
me  best,  and  perhaps  he  is  afraid  of  shocking  me  too 
much  by  advancing  his  own  tenets  and  writing  of  his 
own  new  theories.  I  know  he  believes  he  gives  me 
greater  happiness  by  the  relation  of  his  life's  daily 
details  than  if  he  poured  out  his  soul's  longings  to  me; 
for  it  is  impossible  that  the  sum  of  his  life  is  bounded  by 
such  a  narrow  horizon  as  he  speaks  of.  And  he  says 
that  he  will  write  to  me  again.  This  is  only  a  letter  to 
break  things  to  me,  and  the  next  one  will  be  different. 
Perhaps,  too,  everything  is  so  new  to  him  that  he  feels 
he  must  tell  it  to  some  one.  But  his  faith — his  doc- 
trine— is  new  to  me,  too.  I  wish — ah! — I  wish  he  had 
written  of  that!" 

She  sighed  a  little.  "I  suppose  he  remembers  that  I 
am  only  a  woman  and  not  supposed  to  understand  such 
things.  Perhaps  he  is  right.  Perhaps  he  has  done  the 
kindest  thing.  If  he  had  sent  me  a  letter  filled  with 
longings  and  the  dreams  and  desires  that  must  come  to 
him  in  the  dim  chapel  in  the  early  morning,  I  might  have 
been  .discontented  and  wanted  to  know  how  he  slept  and 
lived  and  walked.  One  is  never  quite  pleased  with  the 
things  one  has.  I  am  sure  that  out  of  his  love  for  me  he 
has  done  the  best." 

She  read  the  letter  again  in  a  happier  spirit  and  found 
a  new  interest  waking  in  her  about  his  little  cell  and  the 
big  refectory  he  told  her  of,  and  the  bare,  cold  corridors 


A   RIVER  REVERIE  203 

with  their  grey  painted  walls.  But  each  fresh  turn  of 
thought  carried  her  back  to  him  in  the  chapel  or  at  his 
prayers.  It  was  in  those  things  that  she  was  most  inter- 
ested, and  it  was  about  that  part  of  his  life  that  she 
wanted  to  know. 

Suddenly  she  cried  aloud:  "He  asks  me  to  write  to 
him.  I  suppose  that  I  may.  Yet  I  always  thought  that 
they  were  so  strict  in  monasteries.  Shall  I  ask  Uncle 
Alban  about  it?" 

She  drew  her  brows  together  in  thought.  "He  will 
not  know,  and  after  what  was  said  this  morning  I 
scarcely  like  to  remind  him  about  what  Paul  has  done. 
I  cannot  make  out  why  they  all  think  it  is  so  dreadful  to 
become  a  Roman  Catholic.  Aunt  Charlotte  said  it  was 
like  marrying  a  ballet  girl  or  doing  something  disgrace- 
ful like  that.  I  think  I  shall  ask  Uncle  Kilbeggie  one 
day  if  he  would  think  it  awfully  wicked  for  a  Roman 
Catholic  to  become  a  Presbyterian.  I  wonder  what  he 
would  say.  I  wish  I  understood  more  about  such  things. 
It  seems  to  me  that  women  are  not  taught  any  religion 
at  all.  They  are  just  made  to  put  on  their  best  clothes 
and  go  to  church  on  Sundays,  and  that  is  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  it.  We  are  not  told  why  we  pray  or  why 
we  must  believe.  We  are  simply  taught  how  to  find  our 
places  in  our  prayer-books,  and  when  we  were  small 
Aunt  Margot  liked  us  to  read  a  chapter  out  of  the  Bible 
every  day.  We  didn't  do  it  often,  and  when  we  did  we 
were  never  told  what  bits  to  read,  so  I  don't  think  it  can 
have  done  us  much  good.  I  wonder  if  Uncle  Alban  would 
give  me  some  books  about  religion.  I  should  like  to 
know  something  about  it,  and  what  is  the  real  difference 
between  my  form  of  faith  and  Paul's.  If  I  am  going  to 
marry  a  Roman  Catholic  it  is  only  right  that  I  should 
understand  about  these  things.  At  present  I  know 


204        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

nothing — and  I  do  not  fancy  that  Aunt  Sophia  or  Aunt 
Charlotte  knows  any  more.  They  just  do  and  say  the 
things  that  they  have  been  accustomed  to  all  their  lives, 
and  they  have  been  taught  that  to  think  differently  or  to 
use  another  form  of  worship  constitutes  a  sin.  If  one 
comes  to  think  it  out,  it  is  really  impossible  that  it  can 
be  like  that.  It  cannot  matter  to  God  whether  we  kneel 
in  one  place  or  stand  up  in  another,  or  whether  we  say 
our  prayers  in  Latin  or  English,  so  long  as  we  say  them 
at  all." 

Her  face  was  calm — almost  happy — as  she  folded 
Paul's  letter  and  put  it  into  her  pocket.  She  looked  at 
her  rod  and  at  the  open  book  of  flies  that  glistened  in 
all  the  glory  of  amber,  green  and  purple  in  the  sun.  As 
in  a  dream  she  picked  up  her  hat  and  was  about  to  put 
it  on  her  head,  when  she  let  it  fall  again. 

"No!"  she  said,  with  that  characteristic  straightfor- 
wardness of  hers.  "I  will  keep  my  promise  to  myself; 
I  will  not  fish  this  morning.  I  will  sit  here  and  think  of 
Paul." 


CHAPTER   XIX 

A  CLOISTERED   LIFE 

"My  DEAR  ROSAMUND: 

"Having  broken  the  ice  by  writing  to  you,  I  cannot 
withstand  the  temptation  of  again  sending  you  a  letter. 
I  hope  it  will  not  be  counted  to  me  as  a  sin. 

"Yesterday  was  the  occasion  of  my  formal  reception 
into  the  novitiate  of  this  monastery  and  of  my  clothing 
as  a  Dominican  novice.  I  will  not  tell  you,  for  perhaps 
you  would  scarcely  understand,  of  the  spiritual  prepara- 
tion that  I  went  through  before  this  most  important 
ceremony.  I  had  not  slept  for  two  nights,  passing  them 
on  my  knees  in  the  dark  before  the  little  crucifix  that 
hangs  in  my  room,  while  such  time  as  I  could  spare  from 
other  studies  I  have  been  praying  in  the  novices'  private 
chapel  or  downstairs  in  the  big  chapel.  Father  Zadock 
helped  me  very  much,  and  the  Prior  himself  saw  me 
twice  and  gave  me  much  good  advice  and  wise  counsel 
about  the  step  I  was  taking. 

"The  reception  of  a  novice  is  very  simple  and  yet 
very  impressive.  It  woke  in  me  the  feeling  that  I  think 
girls  must  have  after  they  have  been  confirmed — it  was 
as  though  part  of  me — my  heart  or  my  soul — had  been 
made  new  again.  It  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  ever 
been  in  the  chapter  room  of  the  monastery.  It  is  a  fine 
apartment,  lighted  with  small  windows  set  very  high  in 
the  walls,  which  are  painted  in  frescoes  with  scenes 
from  the  lives  of  saints  of  the  Dominican  order.  All 

205 


206        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

round  are  seats  for  the  monks  and  Fathers  and  novices, 
and  the  Prior's  great  elbow  chair  is  in  the  centre.  For 
this  occasion  I  cast  aside  the  heavy  black  cassock  and 
leather  belt  which,  since  my  arrival  here,  I  have  worn 
over  my  ordinary  clothes.  The  dean,  who  is  the  eldest 
of  the  novices,  cut  my  tonsure  afresh,  for  though  we  are 
all  tonsured  every  fortnight  in  the  summer,  my  hair 
grows  very  quickly,  and  though  it  had  been  cut  but  ten 
days  before  I  had  it  done  again  for  the  ceremony  of  my 
reception. 

"Almost  in  the  guise  of  a  beggar  I  was  admitted  into 
the  chapter  room,  and  prostrated  myself  in  supplication 
before  the  Prior,  who,  following  the  form  set  forth,  con- 
sented to  receive  me  into  the  novitiate  of  St.  Dominic. 
Then  I  was  led  to  the  altar  in  the  church  and  there 
clothed  by  the  Prior's  own  hands  in  a  white  cloth  habit, 
over  which  was  placed  the  scapula,  which  hangs  free  and 
loose  both  back  and  front.  Then  I  was  given  a  round 
cape  which  just  reaches  my  elbows,  a  white  cowl,  and  the 
small  black  skull  cap  which  both  novices  and  monks  wear. 
The  black  crucifix  that  hangs  on  my  breast  bears  the 
figure  of  Christ  on  it  in  moulded  brass,  and  my  rosary  is 
black,  too.  It  is  warm  weather  now,  so  I  do  not  wear 
the  long  black  cloak  which  we  always  don  in  winter  and 
which  earned  us  the  name  of  the  'Black  Friars.'  After 
my  clothing  followed  a  long  service  of  jubilation  at  my 
reception.  The  occasion  was  made  one  of  great  rejoic- 
ing, because  it  is  now  some  months  since  a  novice  has 
been  received  here. 

"I  did  not  tell  you,  did  I,  in  my  last  letter,  of  my  fel- 
low-novices? We  are  a  strangely  assorted  little  circle, 
with  nothing  in  common  between  us  but  religion,  for 
many  of  them,  like  myself,  do  not  purpose  taking  the 
full  vows  of  poverty,  chastity,  and  obedience.  The 


A    CLOISTERED  LIFE  207 

dean,  who  is  the  superior  novice  in  point  of  time,  is  a 
man  I  do  not  like.  He  means  well,  and  is  very  earnest, 
but  he  is  hard  and  narrow,  not  of  gentle  birth,  and  too 
fond  of  exercising  the  authority  which  chance  has  given 
him.  It  is  his  duty  to  see  that  the  lights  throughout 
the  novitiate  are  extinguished  by  half-past  eight,  and  it 
is  he  who  passes  down  the  corridors  during  the  night  to 
listen  if  we  sleep  or  are  awake  in  our  cells.  His  name  is 
Henry,  and  we  all  fear  him,  for  he  has  it  in  his  power  to 
get  us  punished,  while  we  are  helpless  to  refute  such 
charges  as  he  may  bring  against  us. 

"Next  in  seniority  to  him  is  a  queer  little  soul,  who 
was  only  nine  months  back  a  Protestant  clergyman.  He 
is  about  forty-five  years  old,  and  makes  no  secret 
of  having  joined  the  Holy  Church  because  he  was  tired  of 
being  an  ill-paid  curate  to  country  parsons,  and  utterly 
failed  to  get  a  living  of  his  own.  He  has  always  struck 
me  as  being  deficient  in  the  qualities  that  should  go  to 
make  a  really  good  man.  He  is  fretful  and  pettish,  and 
lays  great  weight  on  small  things.  Before  he  came  to 
live  here  he  made  it  a  condition  with  the  authorities  that 
he  should  be  permitted  to  have  one  pipe  and  a  glass  of 
whisky  and  water  every  night  before  he  went  to  bed. 
He  is  allowed  to  do  this,  but  he  partakes  of  his  indul- 
gences in  an  empty  cell  between  the  hours  of  eight  and 
half-past.  It  seems  such  a  solitary  thing  to  do,  to  sit 
all  by  oneself  and  smoke  and  drink,  but  he  told  me 
that  he  could  not  do  without  it,  and  I  believe  that  from 
the  moment  he  gets  up  in  the  morning  he  spends  the 
whole  day  in  looking  forward  to  his  strange  evening's 
relaxation. 

"Brother  Peter  is  a  novice  who  rather  interests  me, 
for  his  cell  is  next  to  mine.  He  is  a  quiet,  saturnine 
man  of  about  my  own  age.  Like  myself  he  is  a  convert, 


208        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

and  was  until  about  two  years  ago  a  civil  servant  in  the 
general  post  office.  He  is  a  little  strange  in  his  man- 
ner. I  hear  him  muttering  to  himself  sometimes  all 
night  long.  He  says  that  spirits  visit  him  in  his  cell. 
He  is  subject  sometimes  to  the  most  extraordinary  out- 
bursts of  rage,  and  only  three  days  ago,  in  an  uncontrol- 
lable freak  of  temper,  kicked  the  poor  little  ex-parson 
most  cruelly.  He  is  always  doing  penance  and  being 
punished  for  something  or  another,  but  he  persists  that 
he  has  a  vocation,  and  that  when  he  is  ordained  a  priest 
he  is  going  to  be  a  great  preacher  among  men.  He  has 
a  wonderful  memory,  of  which  he  is  very  proud,  and 
which  he  cultivates  to  excess.  He  boasts  that  he  knows 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  Bible  by  heart,  and  indeed  i 
believe  that  this  is  true,  for  often  when  I  walk  behind 
him  in  the  garden  I  hear  him  saying  to  himself  whole 
chapters  from  it.  One  Monday,  when  we  novices  with 
Father  Zadock  and  the  dean  were,  according  to  rule, 
strolling  through  the  fields,  this  strange  man,  who 
remained  at  my  elbow  the  whole  time,  said  to  himself 
the  whole  of  the  New  Testament. 

"Another  of  the  novices  used  to  be  a  Dissenter.  I 
often  wonder  what  train  of  circumstances  brought  him 
to  such  a  change  of  thought  and  religion.  He  is  a  little, 
fat  man,  not  very  earnest  in  his  professions  nor  at  all 
clever.  He  seems  to  regard  the  services  with  less  inter- 
est than  he  does  his  meals,  for  he  is  fond  of  good  living, 
and  takes  every  opportunity  of  going  to  the  meat  room. 
On  days  that  he  is  obliged  to  dine  in  the  refectory  with 
the  rest  of  us,  he  always  stays  behind  after  we  have  fin- 
ished, and  has  as  much  of  the  meal  as  he  can  get  served 
to  him  over  again.  He  has  a  disagreeable  way  of 
smacking  his  lips  and  remarking  on  the  food.  He 
strikes  me  as  being  a  man  who  until  he  came  here  never 


A    CLOISTERED  LIFE  209 

had  sufficient  to  eat.  He  is  already  wondering  how  he 
is  going  to  manage  when  Lent  comes,  and  he  dreads  the 
Ember  days  that  precede  the  Christmas  feast.  One  day 
last  week  I  caught  him  stealing  plums  in  the  kitchen 
garden.  If  it  had  been  the  dean  that  had  seen  him  he 
would  have  had  to  do  penance  after  the  next  monthly 
'proclamation,'  when,  in  the  common  room  of  the  noviti- 
ate, the  shortcomings  and  sins  of  the  novices  are  pro- 
claimed at  full  length,  and  punishment  is  meted  out  by 
the  dean  and  the  novice  master. 

"Nothing  to  my  mind  so  shows  the  worldly  spirit  that 
animates  even  a  holy  community  like  this  as  this  'proc- 
lamation.' It  has  in  it  an  element  of  pettiness  and 
unfairness,  for  it  seems  to  me  unjust  that  men  should  be 
set  to  spy  upon  one  another's  little  failings  and  report 
small  breaches  of  rules.  Each  novice  in  his  turn  is 
indicted,  lying  during  the  time  on  his  right  side  at  full 
length  on  the  floor,  and  forbidden  by  the  rules  of  the 
order  to  deny  anything  or  to  attempt  any  exculpation. 
The  whole  system  is  governed  on  the  lines  of  seniority, 
and  I,  being  the  youngest  novice  here,  can  be  indicted  by 
those  above  me,  but  may  not  in  my  turn,  even  if  I  would 
wish  to  do  so,  bring  any  charge  against  them. 

"I  must  admit,  however,  that  the  punishments  and 
penances,  as  a  rule,  are  as  petty  as  the  crimes  for  which 
they  are  dealt  out.  A  very  ordinary  one  is  to  be  made 
to  kneel  or  to  lie  in  the  form  of  a  cross  and  recite  a 
given  number  of  paternosters.  The  other  day  after 
Brother  Peter  had  hurt  Brother  Henry  by  kicking  him, 
he  was  made  to  kneel  before  him  and  apol-ogise  before 
us  all  for  his  act.  As  he  showed  temper  in  doing  this, 
his  first  punishment  was  supplemented  by  an  order  to  sit 
on  the  floor  of  the  refectory  during  the  dinner  hour  and 
eat  his  meals  from  his  knees  there.  The  greatest  pun- 


210        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

ishment  of  all,  and  one  which  is  but  seldom  administered, 
obliges  the  delinquent,  during  supper  time,  to  crawl  on 
his  knees  and  hands  under  the  refectory  table,  kissing 
in  turn  the  feet  of  the  Fathers.  Excommunication, 
which  practically  means  confinement  to  one's  cell,  is 
also  but  seldom  ordered,  and  then  only  under  what  are 
considered  the  gravest  circumstances. 

"Have  I  told  you  that  twice  a  week  we  retire  to  our 
cells  for  the  purpose  of  using  the  'discipline?'  The 
amount  of  pain  inflicted  is  optional,  and  very  different 
from  the  discomfort  which  arises  during  the  weekly 
'discipline'  held  in  the  common  room  during  the  Lenten 
fast.  Then,  with  bared  shoulders  each  in  turn  receives 
from  the  whip  four  strokes  to  each  one  of  twenty  verses 
of  the  Psalm  that  begins:  ' 'Miser -e,  met  Deus.'  That  is 
the  moment  when  a  private  quarrel  or  a  personal  dislike 
can  be  avenged ;  for  if  the  lash  is  wielded  roughly  and 
strikes  the  face  or  breast  it  cuts  keenly. 

"Once  in  each  year  all  the  denizens  of  the  monastery 
meet  in  the  painted  chapter  room,  and  the  Prior  himself 
'disciplines'  us  with  a  long,  thin  wand. 

"The  novice  with  whom  I  am  most  in  sympathy  is  a 
young  man  who  came  here  a  few  weeks  before  I  did.  He 
is  known  as  Brother  Basil,  and  he  is  a  tradesman's  son. 
He  is  very  simple  in  manner,  and  evidently  never  had  any 
knowledge  of  the  world  to  lay  aside  when  he  came  in. 
His  whole  soul  is  wrapped  in  religion,  and  his  greatest 
ambition  is  to  so  mortify  his  flesh  that  his  sacrifices  shall 
be  counted  for  good  against  the  overwhelming  wicked- 
ness of  mankind.  He  fasts  beyond  the  rules  of  the  order, 
and  wears  himself  out  with  vigils.  When  of  an  evening 
we  are  allowed  to  recreate  ourselves  in  the  common 
room  of  the  novitiate,  where  a  few  illustrated  papers, 
an  old  grand  piano,  and  a  musical  box  are  kept,  he  sits 


A   CLOISTERED  LIFE  21 1 

apart  conning  his  prayers,  or  steals  up  to  the  private 
chapel  on  the  first  floor.  When  we  take  our  weekly  walk 
in  the  meadows,  where  we  are  allowed  to  smoke,  to  pluck 
flowers,  and  to  wander  about  as  we  choose  in  twos  and 
threes,  he  seats  himself  beneath  a  tree  and  tells  his  rosary 
until  it  is  time  for  us  to  return.  During  the  first  month 
that  he  was  here  they  found  him  one  dawn  in  a  dead 
faint  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  and  it  then  came  out  that 
he  had  eaten  no  food  for  three  days  because  he  had  at 
one  meal  succumbed  to  the  temptation  and  taken  two 
helpings  of  butter.  Ordinary  conversation,  such  talk  as 
we  make  among  ourselves  here,  seems  hateful  to  him, 
and  if  one  will  not  discuss  religious  subjects  with  him,  he 
goes  away  silent  and  sad  to  walk  alone  and  meditate  on 
our  sins — and  perhaps  his  own  virtues. 

"Poor  fellow!  I  am  very  sorry  for  him,  for  the  reli- 
gion that  he  is  hugging  so  fondly  to  his  breast  does  not 
even  bring  him  happiness  and  consolation.  He  has 
transformed  his  God  into  an  angry  being  who  is  to  pass 
all  time  and  all  eternity  in  dealing  out  terrible  punish- 
ments to  poor  human  souls.  The  Prior  speaks  with  him 
often,  and  has  tried  to  point  out  to  him  that  the  Church 
has  consolation  for  those  who  live  a  higher  life  and  die 
in  the  odour  of  sanctity,  but  even  that  will  not  suit  his 
mood.  He  takes  his  religion  as  a  child  would  take  a 
nasty  medicine;  believing  on  the  one  hand  that  it  is 
good  for  him,  and  yet  dreading  and  fearing  it.  When  he 
administers  self-chastisement  twice  a  week  in  his  cell, 
he  draws  blood  from  his  thin,  starved  body,  and  he 
resents  almost  with  tears  the  jokes  that  some  of  the 
novices  make  about  their  own  half-hearted  administra- 
tion of  the  'discipline,'  a  whip  which  to  the  lay  mind 
would  look  like  a  cat-o'-five-tails.  One  night  when 
Brother  Henry  was  saying  how  he  had  managed  to  stain 


212        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

the  lashes  of  his  'discipline'  with  a  little  red  sealing  wax, 
poor  Brother  Basil  spent  the  night  in  the  chapel  praying 
for  one  whose  soul  was  so  lost  to  all  true  righteousness. 
He  told  me  the  other  day  he  did  not  think  he  should 
stay  here  long.  He  thinks  no  one  here  is  earnest  enough 
in  his  prayers  or  sufficiently  severe  in  his  mortifications. 

"He  went  to  the  library  the  other  day  and  borrowed 
some  books  about  the  Trappist  monasteries  which  lie 
hidden  among  the  fastnesses  of  Eastern  Europe.  He 
told  me  about  them  in  such  rare  moments  as  he  ever 
devotes  to  speech,  and  as  he  spoke  his  pale  face  and  hag- 
gard eyes  were  quite  transfigured  at  the  idea  that 
somewhere  on  earth  he  could  devote  himself  to  a  living 
death. 

"In  strange  contrast  to  him  is  Brother  Martin,  a  red- 
headed merry  Irish  lad^  He  is  always  in  disgrace,  and 
yet  takes  his  punishments  so  cheerfully,  and  expresses 
such  genuine  regret  at  his  shortcomings  that  even  the 
Prior,  before  whom  he  has  been  sent  several  times,  can- 
not find  it  in  his  heart  to  be  really  angry  with  him.  He 
breaks  every  rule  that  governs  the  community  with 
the  most  extraordinary  regularity.  He  talks  during  the 
hours  of  enforced  silence,  whistles  loudly  as  he  runs  up 
and  down  the  stairs,  and  chatters  to  the  lay  brothers 
when  he  meets  them  in  the  garden  or  corridors — and 
this  last  is  a  most  grave  disobedience.  He  is  lax  in 
chapel,  and  fidgety  at  choir  practice.  He  stares  about 
him  every  time  he  goes  into  church,  and  if  he  is  spoken 
to  answers  in  the  fresh,  breezy,  loud-voiced  manner  with 
which  he  must  until  a  few  months  ago  have  hailed  his 
friends  across  the  fields.  He  is  altogether  an  undis- 
ciplined, good-hearted  soul.  Why  he  came  here  I  cannot 
make  out,  for  his  religious  exercises  seem  to  bore  him 
consistently.  I  suppose,  however,  being  one  of  many 


A    CLOISTERED  LIFE  213 

sons  in  an  old  and  poor  Irish  Catholic  family,  he  was 
destined  from  his  birth  for  the  priesthood,  and  against 
his  inclinations  and  his  capabilities  has  been  doomed 
to  it. 

"Are  we  not  a  strange  assortment?  Very  much  out 
of  keeping  with  one  another,  I  am  afraid,  and  even  in 
our  religious  exercises  having  but  little  in  common,  for 
we  all  view  them  from  a  different  standpoint,  and  all 
regard  them  as  means  to  a  different  end.  I  did  not 
think  when  I  came  here  that  a  monastery  could  be  such 
an  epitome  of  the  outside  world. 

"I  have  discovered  that  I  have  quite  a  talent  for 
using  my  fingers.  We  have  here,  on  the  upper  floor  of 
the  Novitiate,  a  fine  large  room  almost  the  length  of  the 
wing,  where  we  are  sent  at  stated  times  to  do  what  is 
called  manual  labour.  Here  we  make  the  tapers  which 
we  all  carry  in  our  pockets  for  use  in  the  early  morning 
when  we  call  one  another  and  light  the  chapel  gas  for 
Matins.  Here,  too,  we  make  rosaries,  and  that  is  very 
pretty  work.  The  small  plyers  and  the  fine  brass  or 
silver  wire  and  the  beads  of  different  kinds  are  all  dainty 
and  interesting  to  use.  Some  of  the  novices  are  so 
devoted  to  the  occupation  that  they  make  rosaries  even 
during  their  recreation  time.  There  is  a  very  fine  plant 
for  bookbinding  here,  for  two  years  ago  one  of  the 
novices  was  a  bookbinder,  and  taught  the  trade  to  sev- 
eral of  the  others.  I  am  sorry  that  we  are  all  ignorant 
of  it  now,  for  I  think  I  should  have  liked  it.  As  it  is, 
we  get  no  further  than  sewing  the  books,  and  when  we 
have  fastened  together  all  the  loose  leaves  we  can  find, 
we  unpick  the  stitches  and  begin  again.  Some  of  us 
would  like  to  work  in  the  garden,  but  we  are  not  allowed 
to  do  that.  All  other  manual  labour  in  the  monastery, 
save  the  cleaning  and  the  tidying  of  each  cell  by  its  occu- 


214        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

pant,  is  done  by  the  lay  brothers,  who  are  a  pleasant, 
cheery  set  of  men. 

"In  such  time  as  I  have  free  from  the  daily  round  of 
prayer,  study,  the  hours  of  silence,  and  of  choir  practice 
and  the  recital  of  offices,  I  read  a  great  deal.  The 
library  here  is  fairly  well  stocked  with  histories  and 
books  of  travel,  and  even  story  books.  I  am,  however, 
most  interested  in  works  that  deal  with  the  religion  I 
have  adopted,  for  I  feel  that  even  now  I  am  very  igno- 
rant on  the  subject.  I  have  just  finished  Bishop  Ulla- 
thorn's  great  work  on  God,  and  am  going  to  begin  a 
volume  of  Milner's  'Essays,'  and  Roderigue's  'Christian 
Perfection,'  which  the  Prior  particularly  wishes  me  to 
study. 

"Rosamund,  when  are  you  going  to  write  to  me?  A 
letter  from  you  would  be  the  best  reading  of  all.  Tell 
me  something  of  yourself,  and  tell  me  that  you  still  think 
of  me  as  you  did  before  we  parted.  Yours, 

"PAUL." 


CHAPTER   XX 

ROSAMUND'S  RECORD 

IT  took  Rosamund  some  weeks  to  comply  with  Paul's 
request  that  she  would  write  to  him.  His  second  letter 
had  brought  her  a  greater  sense  of  disappointment  and 
doubt  than  his  first  had  done.  The  smallness  of  the 
details  of  his  life  struck  her  more  keenly  than  before  and 
seemed  to  build  a  great  wall  of  reserve  between  him 
and  herself.  That  she  was  a  thing  apart  from-  his  occu- 
pations and  actions  almost  forced  her  to  regard  him  as  a 
stranger,  and  not  the  Paul  she  had  known  and  loved. 

Perhaps,  too,  it  was  the  vague,  superstitious  regard 
which  all  women  hold  for  religious  institutions  that 
chained  her  thoughts  when  she  at  length  took  up  her  pen 
and  set  paper  before  her  to  write  to  him.  She  could  not 
free  herself  from  the  idea  that  it  could  not  be  right  for 
her  to  comment  on  all  the  frivolous  surroundings  of  her 
life  to  a  man,  who,  even  for  a  time,  was  set  apart  in  a 
holy  life.  How  could  she  tell  him  of  the  Highland  meet- 
ings and  the  balls  which  followed  them?  How  could  she 
write  to  him  about  the  number  of  salmon  she  had  killed, 
or  relate  the  prowess  of  her  uncle  and  his  friends  in 
stalking  deer?  How  could  she  retail  to  a  man  whose 
mind  should  be  filled  with  spiritual  things  the  foolish 
gossip  that  surrounded  a  quarrel  Honor  had  had  with  her 
fiance? 

It  would  be  impossible  to  tell  him — he  who  was  cut 
off  from  the  world  for  the  time  and  forbidden  to  see  her 

215 


2l6        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

for  so  many  months — that  Lord  St.  Ives  was  staying  on 
a  visit  and  again  pressing  his  attentions  upon  her.  Yet 
these  things  made  up  the  sum  and  parcel  of  her  life  that 
autumn,  for  Rosamund  had  lately  grown  into  the  habit 
of  putting  all  thought  behind  her  and  of  living  merely  for 
the  hour  and  what  it  brought.  Almost  unconsciously 
she  was  giving  way  to  a  kind  of  moral  dram-drinking,  try- 
ing by  mental  excitement  and  by  physical  exertion  to 
deaden  the  sense  of  weariness  that  crept  over  her  when 
she  was  alone  or  unoccupied.  She  sometimes  feared 
that  she  was  weakly  giving  way  to  a  bad  habit,  and  that 
she  was  shirking  the  responsibilities  that  would  have  to 
be  faced  sooner  or  later.  She  felt  that  she  was  only 
putting  off  an  evil  day  which  must  inevitably  come,  but 
more  than  anything  she  realised  how  utterly  alone  she 
was  at  this  time,  for  her  uncle  was  shooting  hard  and 
painting  hard,  and  his  moments  of  leisure  were  very 
rare. 

She  sat  for  hours  one  morning  in  her  room  trying  to 
frame  a  letter  to  Paul.  Her  natural  reserve  and  mod- 
esty checked  any  indication  or  any  terms  of  endearment, 
pride  stayed  her  when  she  longed  to  pour  out  her 
troubles,  and  a  sense  of  incongruity  between  her  position 
and  his  arrested  all  expression  of  mere  worldly  matters. 
The  morning  had  gone  by  and  she  had  written  nothing 
and  still  was  no  nearer  what  she  should  write,  only  she 
grew  angry  with  herself  for  being  so  cowardly,  so  unde- 
termined, and  so  weak.  Then  suddenly  a  thought  came 
to  her.  She  would  keep  a  diary,  in  which  she  would 
record  every  incident  of  her  daily  life,  and  which,  when 
they  met  next  year  she  would  lay  without  reserve  in 
Paul's  hands,  so  that  at  least  he  should  never  feel  that 
any  one  day  of  her  life  had  been  hidden  from  him.  Now 
she  would  merely  write  to  him  and  say  what  she  was 


ROSAMUND'S  RECORD  217 

doing,  and  promise  to  send  him  every  now  and  again  a 
little  line  of  assurance  that  she  was  well  and  true  to  him. 

She  wrote  the  words  down.  They  were  very  few,  and 
did  not  fill  more  than  the  front  of  the  sheet  of  paper.  It 
looked  such  a  tiny  scrap  when  it  was  finished  that  she 
was  almost  ashamed  to  put  it  in  an  envelope  and  address 
it  to  him,  but  she  felt  that  it  was  best  done  that  way,  and 
that  she  should  never  forgive  herself  if  anything  she 
said  in  a  longer,  fuller  letter  distracted  his  thoughts 
unduly  or  disturbed  his  life. 

That  done,  she  drew  towards  her  a  quantity  of  paper 
and  began  with  the  careful  minuteness  that  was  part  of 
her  nature  to  write  down  on  it  a  statement  of  the  facts 
that  were  then  influencing  her  daily  life.  She  fenced 
with  nothing.  She  did  not  put  anything  down  in  extenu- 
ation or  exaggeration.  She  did  her  best  to  make  it  all 
as  truthful  and  as  clear  as  possible.  She  tried  hard  to 
keep  her  own  feelings  and  her  own  thoughts  within  what 
she  wrote.  It  was  only  here  and  there  that  a  faint  note 
of  sorrow  that  she  now  saw  so  little  of  her  uncle,  or  an 
indication  of  the  heart  loneliness  she  was  then  suffering, 
slipped  among  the  pages. 

"The  surroundings  of  my  life,"  she  wrote,  "are 
imperceptibly  but  surely  changed — or  is  it  I  who  am 
changed  and  imagine  a  difference  in  others?  Perhaps  it 
is  my  fancy  that  Aunt  Margot  looks  upon  me  more 
severely  than  she  has  ever  done,  and  my  cousins  alter- 
nately slight  or  sneer  at  me.  While  even  my  dear  uncle 
does  not  seem  to  have  the  leisure  for  my  company  that 
he  used  to  do.  Sometimes  I  think  that  they  are  trying 
to  make  me  discontented,  with  a  view  to  forcing  me 
into  some  other  life. 

"Lord  St.  Ives  arrived  here  on  a  visit  last  week.  He 
has  been  out  shooting  almost  every  day  with  Uncle 


2l8        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Alban  and  the  other  men  who  are  in  the  house.  I  have 
gathered  from  the  way  he  speaks  that  his  visit  here  is  to 
be  an  indefinite  one.  I  am  sorry  for  this,  because  I 
cannot  like  him.  I  might  perhaps  get  over  my  aversion 
a  little  if  he  would  not  always  so  persistently  intrude 
himself  upon  my  notice.  But  the  longest  days  on  the 
moors  come  to  an  end,  then  there  are  the  late  afternoons 
and  dinners  and  the  evenings,  and  Lord  St.  Ives  is 
always  at  my  side.  He  has  not  since  that  night  in  May 
ever  dared  to  insult  me  again  with  any  outspoken  admir- 
ation or  demonstration,  but  I  feel  instinctively  that  he 
is  only  here  because  of  me.  Of  Honor  he  takes  no 
notice.  Laura  he  treats  like  a  spoilt  child 

"Every  evening  Lord  St.  Ives  asks  me  to  sing,  and 
if  I  demur  at  all  or  excuse  myself  he  appeals  to  Aunt 
Margot,  and  she  commands  me  to  do  my  best  to  make 
myself  agreeable,  and  not  to  give  myself  airs.  He  always 
sits  by  the  piano  while  I  play,  and  however  much  I  may 
look  at  the  keys  or  fix  my  eyes  and  my  attention  on  the 
music,  I  always  know  that  his  eyes  are  wandering  over 
my  face  and  my  throat  and  neck,  and  it  makes  me  tingle  to 
the  tips  of  my  fingers.  For  the  last  three  nights  I  have 
made  the  excuse  of  having  a  cold,  and  have  come  down 
to  dinner  in  a  high  gown.  He  asked  me  last  night  why 
I  did  so,  and  told  me  I  had  no  business  to  cover  myself 
up  as  much  as  all  that.  I  wish  he  would  go  away,  or, 
if  he  stays,  I  wish  he  would  leave  me  alone 

"Another  fortnight  has  gone  by,  and  Lord  St.  Ives  is 
still  here.  Twice  the  guests  staying  in  the  house  have 
been  changed,  but  he  shows  no  signs  of  leaving.  Laura 
this  morning  said  she  was  sick  of  the  sight  of  him,  and 
wished  I  would  bring  matters  to  a  head  so  that  I  might 
be  engaged  to  him,  and  that  then  perhaps  he  would  go. 
'He  wants  you,'  she  said,  in  her  blunt  way,  'and  mother 


ROSAMUNDS  RECORD  219 

means  him  to  have  you.  You  had  better  give  in  at 
once.'  But  I  cannot  do  it;  Paul  has  my  promise  for  a 
year,  and  whatever  happens  at  the  end  of  that  time  I 
will  at  least  hold  to  my  word  until  he  himself  tells  me 

that  he  loves  me  no  longer 

"I  had  another  letter  from  Paul  yesterday.  I  love 
to  see  his  handwriting  on  an  envelope;  it  thrills  me  with 
joy  to  press  out  the  folds  from  the  sheets  of  paper  over 
which  his  dear  fingers  have  passed — and  yet  I  always 
feel  so  unhappy  by  the  time  I  have  finished  reading  what 
he  has  written.  Like  all  the  others  it  is  full  of  triviali- 
ties. He  says  the  leaves  are  falling  fast  and  the  creep- 
ers that  grow  over  the  house  hang  like  flaming  banners 
of  crimson  silk  against  the  grey  walls.  It  is  very  cold 
there  in  the  early  morning,  and  he  dreads  the  days  when 
it  is  his  turn  to  rise  in  the  chill  dark  and  rouse  the 
monastery  for  Matins.  He  says  it  is  so  eerie  to  go  down 
into  the  damp  chapel,  and  by  the  light  of  a  feeble  taper 
to  wander  up  the  aisles  and  make  ghostly  sounds  with 
his  own  footsteps.  He  tells  me  as  a  joke — that  when  he 
lit  the  gas  one  morning  in  Father  Zadock's  room  and 
gave  him  the  greeting  of  the  order,  ' Benedicamus 
Dominie,'  instead  of  answering  ' Deo  gratius,'  as  he 
should,  the  Father  only  roared  from  his  bed,  'Put  out 
that  gas  and  go  to  the  devil!'  He  tells  me  that  that 
unfortunate  creature  who  was  so  odd  when  he  first  went 
there  has  since  gone  mad  and  tried  to  kill  first  a  lay 
brother  and  then  himself.  Paul  has  been  preaching  his 
first  sermon.  It  was  at  the  eleven  o'clock  service,  and 
only  those  in  the  monastery  were  present.  He  says  it 
was  very  badly  written,  and  he  hopes  he  will  not  have 
to  do  another.  He  has  been  punished  for  going  into 
the  kitchen,  where,  it  seems,  he  had  no  business,  and  he 
and  the  head  novice,  whom  he  calls  the  dean,  have 


220        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

fallen  out  about  the  cutting  of  his  tonsure.  He  has 
lately  taken  to  collecting  botanical  specimens  for  a  cer- 
tain Father  Lucius,  who  is  something  of  a  naturalist. 
Father  Lucius  smokes  a  great  deal,  and  the  novices 
make  an  excuse  of  going  to  his  cell,  so  that  their 
clothes  should  not  betray  them  when  they  smoke  them- 
selves  

"The  musical  box  in  the  common  room  of  the  novi- 
tiate has  a  broken  spring,  and  the  novices  have  invented 
a  new  game  by  which  they  can  play  the  'Dead  March'  in 
'Saul'  as  fast  as  a  galop  or  as  slowly  as  a  dirge,  just  as 
it  pleases  them.  Some  one  was  ill  in  the  monastery  the 
other  day.  Paul  does  not  say  who,  but  three  or  four 
of  them  rummaged  among  the  old  bottles  of  medicine 
which  had  been  put  aside  from  time  immemorial  in  the 
infirmorium,  and  picking  out  the  first  thing  they  could 
find,  gave  it  to  the  sick  man.  A  monk  has  lately  died 
there.  Paul  tells  me  he  was  a  bad-tempered  man  and 
unpopular  in  the  monastery,  but  was  a  wonderful  artist. 
He  illustrated  in  black  and  white  stories  for  some  of  the 
magazines,  and  exhibited  his  pictures  from  time  to  time 
in  London.  Just  before  he  died  he  painted  a  portrait  of 
Paul.  Paul  says  that  if  the  portrait  is  like  him,  it  shows 
him  to  have  grown  thinner  and  to  have  lost  the  colour 
of  his  eyes  and  lips. 

"Paul  is  no  longer  the  youngest  novice.  An  Italian 
has  come  to  the  monastery  lately.  He  is  a  man  of  good 
birth,  but  of  strange  habits  and  but  little  education. 
He  can  only  speak  a  jargon  of  Italian,  Latin,  and  Eng- 
lish, and  his  habits  are  ultra-foreign  and  unclean.  The 
others  make  him  sing  to  them  in  the  common  room  of 
an  evening,  and  he  improvises  tunes  to  words  that  have 
no  meaning.  Paul  says  that  the  new  novice  spends  most 
of  his  time  praying  to  a  hideous  little  Italian  picture  of 


221 

the  Virgin,  and  that  in  his  cell  he  keeps  a  queer  collec- 
tion of  fruit  and  dead  flowers,  candle  ends,  and  such 
ragged  bits  of  stuff  and  ribbon  as  he  has  been  able  to 
accumulate.  When  on  Sunday  the  Prior  goes  round  the 
monastery  for  Asperges  and  sprinkles  every  cell  in  turn, 
the  visit  made  to  Brother  Lorenzo's  is  the  briefest.  A 
novice  was  severely  punished  the  other  day  for  picking 
up  his  habit  to  run  faster  when  playing  football. 

"And  then  Paul  finishes  his  letter  by  telling  me  he 
loves  me  and  thinks  of  me  and  longs  for  me.  What 
does  it  all  mean,  this  chronicling  of  childish  punish- 
ments and  petty  gossip — this  little,  narrow,  sordid  world 
in  which  nothing  is  of  any  moment  save  the  looks  or  the 
speech  of  any  of  the  community?  There  is  not  one  word 
to  imply  that  he  has  found  the  comfort  he  sought — or 
even  that  he  has  been  disappointed.  He  only  mentions 
the  chapel  as  a  place  that  is  cold  and  filled  with  weird 
shadows  and  ghostly  sounds  in  the  early  mornings.  His 
preaching  has  given  him  no  pleasure;  his  whole  life  at 
present  seems  to  be  wasted.  Paul,  Paul,  what  made 
you  do  this  thing?  Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  in  your 
great  trouble,  and  together  we  might  have  met  it  and 
fought  it?  .... 

"I  wonder  whether  I  was  weak  and  to  blame  in  giving 
way  to  my  uncle's  rule?  Perhaps  it  has  all  been  my 
fault,  and  I  should  have  forgotten  the  duty  and  the  grati- 
tude and  the  love  I  owed  to  my  family,  and  left  them  all 
in  disobedience  and  in  anger  and  gone  to  Paul  and 
helped  him.  Now  it  seems  to  me  that  we  have  both 
made  a  fearful  mistake — I,  in  so  easily  giving  him  up, 
and  he  in  fearing  his  own  strength  and  his  capability  to 
live  in  the  world  without  me  to  help  him.  Each  time  I 
hear  from  him  I  grow  more  unhappy.  I  blame  myself 
for  the  past,  and  I  tremble  in  anticipation  of  what  the 


222         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

future  may  bring.  I  have  sent  him  another  little  letter 
to  tell  him  I  have  received  his.  That  is  all  I  can  do, 
and  I  have,  even  in  writing  that,  to  force  myself  to 
measure  each  word  for  fear  that  I  should  say  too 
much 

"We  all  came  to  the  Manor  House  three  days  ago 
from  Scotland,  and  go  to  London  to-morrow  to  buy  some 
horses.  Cubbing  has  already  begun,  and  uncle  is  keen 
to  start  work.  I  don't  know  that  I  am  looking  forward 
to  it.  It  must  be  myself,  after  all,  that  is  changed,  for 
this  time  last  year  I  was  wild  at  the  idea  of  having  a 
couple  of  mounts  of  my  own,  and  of  all  the  sport  and  fun 
of  the  winter 

"The  last  three  weeks  of  our  stay  in  Scotland  were 
not  happy  ones.  Aunt  Margot  was  not  well.  I  think 
she  is  changing  very  much,  and  I  fear  that  among  other 
things  she  is  troubled  about  Lord  St.  Ives  and  me.  He 
did  not  speak  to  me  while  we  were  there,  but  I  know  he 
did  to  her,  and  his  last  words  before  leaving  were  that 
he  would  be  in  Midshire  early  in  December.  How  I 
dread  that  time!  It  used  to  be  such  a  happy  month, 
with  Christmas  for  its  ending,  and  all  the  good  wishes 
and  presents  and  kindliness  that  came  with  that  day. 
This  Christmas  will  be  very  different  from  last.  Honor 
will  be  married  and  gone  away  on  her  honeymoon,  and 
Paul  will  not  be  here.  Paul's  last  letter  tells  me  he  has 
not  been  well,  and  has  been  ordered  to  eat  meat.  He 
and  the  dean  have  had  more  quarrels,  and  Paul  was 
excommunicated  for  two  days  to  his  cell.  His  letter 
was  very  short  and  very  hard.  It  seemed  to  me  as 
though  it  were  written  by  a  man  whose  heart  was 
crushed  within  him,  or  who  was  suffering  from  some  ter- 
rible disappointment.  I  do  so  pray  that  he  is  not  finding 
out  that  he  has  made  a  mistake 


ROSAMUND'S  RECORD  22 3 

"Honor's  wedding  is  over,  and  the  house  is  quiet 
again.  To-morrow  is  Christmas  Day,  but  we  are  having 
no  party  here.  Aunt  Margot's  health  grows  worse,  and 
she  never  comes  down  now  until  nearly  luncheon  time. 
I  have  not  heard  from  Paul  for  three  weeks.  I  wonder 
if  anything  is  wrong.  Laura  has  gone  away  for  Christ- 
mas; I  am  glad,  because  the  silence  of  this  house 
and  her  mother's  illness  were  making  her  so  irritable  and 
resentful  against  every  one.  She  has  grown  to  take  it 
as  a  personal  injury  to  herself  when,  from  one  cause  or 
another,  she  cannot  fill  the  house  with  her  own  friends. 
My  grey  mare,  'Silvertop, '  broke  her  leg  yesterday  by 
jumping  short  over  that  stone  wall  at  the  top  of  Farmer 
Viner's  copse.  Uncle  says  she  will  have  to  be  shot.  I 
am  so  sorry;  she  was  such  a  darling,  and  carried  me 
beautifully.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  hear  from  Paul  to-mor- 
row or  at  the  New  Year 

"I  am  writing  to-day  with  all  my  windows  wide  open. 
The  rooks  are  so  busy  in  the  trees  and  all  the  little  birds 
are  making  love  in  the  shrubbery  that  runs  under  my 
window.  The  last  meet  will  be  in  another  fortnight,  and 
then  back  to  town  once  more  we  go.  Aunt  Margot  is 
better,  but  the  least  thing  fatigues  her  nowadays,  and 
we  have  had  very  few  people  staying  here  this  winter 
for  the  balls.  Laura  has  taken  to  playing  golf,  or  rather 
she  walks  round  the  links  with  Captain  Fairleigh,  a 
rather  nice  looking  man  who  has  for  the  past  month  been 
quartered  at  Shellerly  Barracks.  He  is  supposed  to 
admire  athletic  girls,  so  Laura  has  copied  the  cut  of  my 
country  skirts  and  taken  to  wearing  a  deer-stalker  hat 
and  going  for  long  walks  with  the  captain.  Lord  St. 
Ives  is  in  the  south  of  France.  He  was  here  for  a  while 
in  January,  but  I  am  glad  to  say,  left  me  more  in  peace. 
I  have  not  heard  from  Paul  since  the  middle  of  Decem- 


224        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

ber,  although  I  have  written  to  him  many  times,  beseech- 
ing him  to  tell  me  if  aught  is  amiss  with  him,  or  if  his 
heart  is  changed.  In  a  few  weeks  now  the  time  of  our 
probation  will  be  over,  and  we  shall  be  free  at  least  to 
meet — if  nothing  more.  Does  he  remember  this,  and 
will  he  come  to  see  me?  After  so  long  a  silence  on  his 
side,  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  write  again,  but  yet  I  feel 
almost  tempted  to  cast  aside  all  reserve  and  pride  and 
tell  him  that  I  am  longing  for  the  hour  that  is  to  bring 

us  together  once  more 

"We  are  settled  down  again  in  town  for  the  season. 
Uncle  had  hoped  to  let  'The  Hurst,'  but  Aunt  Margot, 
though  very  weak,  has  insisted  on  one  more  season  for 
Laura.  Honor  and  her  husband  are  staying  here.  The 
house  is  full  from  morning  till  night.  Aunt  Margot  is 
herself  again,  and  we  are  engaged  every  day  and  evening 
in  the  week.  The  past  year  might  be  nothing  but  an 
evil  dream  if  it  were  not  that  Paul  is  not  here,  but 
to-day  three  weeks,  if  he  remembers,  and  if  he  still  loves 
me,  he  ought  to  come." 


CHAPTER   XXI 

YOUNG  BLOOD 

ONE  day  early  in  the  long  and  bitter  winter  Paul  wished 
to  write  another  letter  to  Rosamund.  To  obtain  mate- 
rials to  do  this  he  had  to  go  through  the  form  of  asking 
the  novice  master  for  envelope  and  paper.  A  week 
earlier  the  good  Father  Zadock  had  left  for  Rome,  to 
sojourn  there  in  one  of  the  great  Dominican  monasteries 
for  the  winter.  He  had  been  replaced  in  his  position  of 
authority  and  responsibility  by  an  austere  member  of  the 
brotherhood,  whose  reign  over  the  novices  threatened  to 
make  their  lives  very  different  from  those  they  had  passed 
under  the  easy-going,  genial  rule  of  Father  Zadock. 

Father  Joseph  was  a  stern  man ;  his  early  manhood 
had  been  stormy,  and  his  repentance  and  retirement  from 
the  world  accompanied  by  the  upheaval  of  his  entire 
nature.  Like  many  men  who  had  passed  loose  lives  out- 
side, he  was  a  martinet  in  all  that  concerned  authority, 
observance,  and  self-abasement,  once  he  was  within  the 
pale.  He  was  a  man  who  fasted  and  prayed  and  used 
his  "discipline"  with  a  fierce  satisfaction  in  every  sting 
it  gave  him.  He  was  anticipating  the  monthly  "procla- 
mation" of  his  pupils'  shortcomings  with  a  sardonic 
pleasure,  and  was  already  devising  heavy  punishments 
for  their  peccadilloes  and  petty  sins.  He  looked  sternly 
at  Paul  as  he  proffered  his  request. 

"You  write  many  letters,  do  you  not,  my  son?" 
"Not  more  than  some  of  the  others,"  answered  Paul. 
225 


226        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Do  not  spoil  that  sheet  of  paper,"  said  the  Father. 
"You  will  get  no  more  from  me.  Father  Zadock  was 
too  lenient  in  such  matters." 

Paul  took  up  the  single  sheet  of  paper  and  envelope, 
and  moved  to  leave  the  room. 

"Mind  that  your  letter  is  brought  here  unsealed  when 
it  is  finished,"  said  the  monk. 

"I  have  always  observed  the  rules  about  letters," 
answered  Paul,  rather  defiantly,  as  he  turned  round  in 
the  doorway. 

Father  Joseph  affected  not  to  hear,  and  bent  again 
over  his  book. 

Paul  in  his  letter  to  Rosamund  laid  this  time  but 
little  stress  upon  his  own  daily  life.  Rather  did  he  write 
of  the  New  Year  that  was  within  measurable  time  and 
was  to  bring  them  together  once  more.  In  a  half- 
hearted way — for  he  dared  not  acknowledge  it  even  to 
himself — he  implied  that  his  present  life  was  fast  becom- 
ing a  weariness  to  him;  that  he  had  not  found  in  it  that 
which  he  had  sought,  and  that  though  he  meant  to  hold 
to  his  word  and  keep  his  novitiate  of  twelve  months,  he 
should,  after  the  New  Year,  count  the  days  that  would 
make  him  free  once  more  and  bring  him  to  her  side. 

It  was  not  a  long  letter,  but  it  was  quite  enough  for 
Father  Joseph  when  a  little  later  he  drew  it  out  of  the 
envelope,  and — justified  by  the  rules  of  his  order — read 
it  from  beginning  to  end.  With  the  document  in  his 
hand  he  went  straight  to  the  Prior,  and  together  they 
read  it  again  and  again,  gathering  from  it  that  the 
novice  Paul  had  been  writing  to  a  woman  the  whole  time 
he  had  been  in  the  monastery,  as  well  as  receiving  let- 
ters from  her.  The  Prior  was  deeply  grieved,  and 
Father  Joseph  angry  and  outraged,  but  they  decided  that 
for  the  moment  Paul  should  not  know  his  secret  had 


YOUNG  BLOOD  227 

been  discovered.  These  worthy  men  of  God  still 
retained  enough  of  the  leaven  of  the  devil  to  know  that 
a  young  man  thwarted  in  his  heart's  desires  is  as  likely 
as  not  to  prove  troublesome,  and  openly  to  defy  all  the 
rules  of  the  order,  and  perhaps  to  leave  the  monastery  in 
scandalous  haste. 

Therefore  they  agreed  between  themselves  that 
special  "novena,"  or  prayers,  should  be  said  for  him  in 
the  chapel  every  day,  though  his  name  should  not  be 
mentioned  in  them.  And  so  Paul  drifted  on  through 
the  dark  winter  months,  writing  his  letters  to  Rosamund, 
and  wondering  why  none  ever  came  from  her. 

As  the  new  year  grew  to  its  second  month,  he  wrote 
her,  saying  he  was  now  counting  the  hours,  as  a  school- 
boy counts  the  time  to  the  holidays,  to  the  fair  morning 
when  he  should  go  outside  the  gates  a  free  man,  take 
train  to  London,  and  clasping  her  dear  hands  in  his, 
claim  her  for  his  own.  Whatever  faint  idea  he  might 
have  had  in  the  early  days  when  he  had  decided  to  enter 
the  monastery  of  feeling  a  vocation  for  a  secluded  life 
had  dropped  from  him.  The  long  months  of  rest,  the 
monotonous  passage  of  the  hours,  the  repeated  periods 
of  solemn  silence,  during  which  he  was  free  to  think  of 
what  he  pleased,  had  all  tended  to  make  him  regard  life 
from  a  healthier  and  wider  point  of  view.  He  recognised 
that  what  he  had  thought  a  terrible  misfortune  a  few 
months  back  had  really  been  for  his  own  good,  that  it 
had  steadied  him,  given  him  a  newer  sense  of  responsi- 
bility and  a  more  settled  chance  of  true  happiness.  He 
still  felt  that  he  did  not  wish  to  go  back  to  society,  but  he 
no  longer  endured  the  bitterness  which  had  filled  his 
heart  and  soul  when,  in  the  past  summer,  all  his  world 
had  idly  cut  him  for  what  he  now  realised  was  a  mere 
whim  of  fancy. 


228        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

He  desired  once  more  a  healthy,  manly  life.  He  did 
not  regret  for  one  moment  that  he  had  been  received 
into  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  for  in  his  hour  of  trial 
he  had  won  great  comfort  from  its  ministrations,  and 
he  still  felt  that  it  was  the  best  and  safest  religion  for 
him.  But  he  now  perceived  that  men  can  do  more 
good  out  in  the  world,  living  clean  lives  themselves  and 
making  others  happy,  than  by  wearing  out  their  bodies 
and  breaking  their  hearts  in  dim,  incense-perfumed 
chapels,  or  amid  the  four  walls  of  a  living  tomb. 

He  longed,  with  all  the  healthy  instincts  of  a  man 
who  has  just  recovered  from  a  long  illness,  to  live  again. 
He  wanted  to  hear  the  babble  of  voices,  and  to  feel  the 
touch  of  soft  white  hands.  He  wanted  to  feel  the  fresh 
rush  of  air  blow  past  his  face  as  he  rode  over  the  green 
fields.  He  longed  for  the  kindly  greeting,  the  cheery 
word,  the  whole-hearted  laugh  of  the  men  of  his  world, 
and  for  the  humanising  instinct  that  comes  from  mingling 
with  gracious  women  and  innocent  children. 

As  day  after  day  went  by,  and  winter  died  before  the 
coming  spring,  his  soul  was  more  outside  the  high,  red 
walls  than  within  them.  Day  after  day  he  was 
reproached  for  indifference  at  services,  and  reproved  for 
breaking  the  rules  of  the  order.  His  heart  was  so  light 
that  his  voice  and  feet  grew  light  with  it,  and  he  was  in 
perpetual  disgrace  for  running  or  shouting  or  singing  as 
he  passed  along  the  straight  garden  paths  and  watched 
the  buds  bursting  on  the  trees  and  the  fruit  blossoms 
gleaming  like  snow  in  the  golden  sunshine. 

But  he  cared  nothing  for  the  punishments,  the  per- 
petual excommunications  and  enforced  apologies;  his 
only  trouble  was  Rosamund's  silence,  and  every  day  that 
passed  brought  him  nearer  to  an  explanation  of  that. 
His  letters  to  her  were  all  full  of  the  future,  and  one 


TOUNG  BLOOD  229 

fair,  warm  day  in  mid-spring,  when  the  life  blood  ran 
hotly  through  his  veins,  he  could  not  for  the  world's  sake 
restrain  himself  from  pouring  out  to  her  all  the  passion 
that  he  felt. 

Father  Joseph's  brow,  as  he  read  that  letter,  grew 
black  as  thunder.  Generalities  about  the  monastery, 
foolish  babblings  about  the  spring,  little  messages  indica- 
tive of  affection  or  regret  might  be  overlooked,  but 
a  letter  that  breathed  in  every  line  a  man's  passion  for  a 
woman  which  was  full  of  virile  longing  and  the  adoration 
that  flesh  gives  to  flesh,  was  too  much. 

The  next  day  Paul  was  summoned  before  the  Prior 
and  his  accuser,  the  novice  master,  and  then  he  learned 
the  secret  of  Rosamu,nd's  silence;  learned,  too,  that  dur- 
ing all  these  months  she  must  have  deemed  him  forget- 
ful if  not  untrue.  In  a  moment  his  own  disappointment 
and  the  suffering  she  must  have  endured  rushed  upon 
him  like  a  sea.  He  forgot  his  vows  as  a  novice,  the 
schooling  of  the  past  eleven  months,  the  restraint  that 
enforced  obedience  had  placed  upon  him  for  so  long;  he 
forgot  that  he  was  before  his  superiors  in  age,  in  wisdom, 
and  in  monastical  life.  He  only  remembered  that  he 
was  a  man  outraged  by  men.  With  all  the  restrained 
passion  boiling  to  his  lips  he  accused  them  of  having 
spied  upon  him,  of  having  betrayed  him.  He  demanded 
the  letters  which  had  been  sent  to  him  and  which  he  had 
never  received;  he  ordered  them  to  return  those  that 
had  been  written  and  never  sent.  In  a  very  frenzy  of 
rage,  he  plucked  the  crucifix  from  his  neck  and  the 
rosary  from  his  side  and  flung  them  at  the  Prior's 
feet. 

"I  will  stay  in  this  place  no  longer,"  he  cried.  "Reli- 
gion or  no  religion,  vows  or  no  vows,  you  have  deceived 
me  and  deceived  a  woman  who  has  done  you  no  harm — 


230        THE  PASSION  OP  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

whom  you  do  not  even  know.  I  break  such  vows  as  I 
have  made,  and  I  leave  you  now  and  for  always." 

He  strode  to  his  cell,  where  an  hour  later  a  lay 
brother  brought  him  the  clothes  he  had  laid  aside  so 
many  months  ago.  With  hands  that  trembled  with 
excitement,  he  tossed  aside  everything  that  reminded 
him  of  the  past  and  resumed  his  own  garments,  feeling 
that  with  them  he  assumed  once  more  the  ways  and 
habits  of  the  world.  He  thrust  such  belongings  as  he 
had  into  his  bag,  and  then  made  for  the  door.  One  or 
two  of  the  novices  met  him  on  his  way  thither,  for  even 
such  a  secret  departure  as  Paul's  becomes  known  in  a 
small  community. 

"Good-bye,"  they  cried  heartily;  "good-bye,  Brother 
Paul.  We  wish  you  well." 

But  one  monk,  a  very  old  man,  whose  feet  were  tread- 
ing gravewards  fast,  shook  him  by  the  hands,  and  said  in 
his  piping,  feeble  voice: 

"You  are  going  out  again,  but  you  will  come  back. 
Mark  my  words,  you  will  come  back.  Those  who  have 
once  known  the  peace  that  lies  within  the  walls  of  a 
monastery  and  the  holy  calm  that  rests  within  our 
chapels  can  never  stay  outside." 

But  Paul  laughed  joyously  in  his  face,  and  laughed 
again  as  he  almost  ran  down  the  avenue,  and  laughed  loud- 
est of  all  when  the  tall  wooden  gate  swung  behind  him 
and  he  stood  out  in  the  road  with  his  bag  in  his  hand, 
a  perfectly  free  man  once  more.  Free  to  go  back 
to  London  and  see  his  friends,  glean  news  of  his  love, 
and  pass  in  delicious  dreams  the  few  short  days  that 
were  to  end  his  time  of  probation. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE   TORTURE   OF  TANTALUS 

ROSAMUND  KEITH  had  not  been  looking  her  best  all  the 
season,  and  as  June  set  in,  hot  and  close,  with  long, 
burning  days,  when  the  sky  was  like  brass  and  the  air 
throbbed  as  do  heat  waves  from  a  furnace,  and  the 
nights  were  heavy  with  mist  and  close  for  want  of  fresh, 
stirring  air,  she  faded  visibly. 

Although  she  scarcely  knew  it  herself,  Rosamund  was 
suffering  more  from  Paul's  silence  than  from  his  absence. 
She  had  written  so  often  to  him,  urging  and  praying  for 
even  the  smallest  word  in  reply.  She  only  begged  for  an 
assurance  that  he  was  well,  but  when  no  answer  came 
and  the  weeks  of  the  early  spring  melted  into  the  fierce 
summer  and  brought  her  still  no  news,  her  faith  in  him 
and  in  his  steadfast  love  for  her  grew  very  faint  some- 
times. She  herself  was  of  so  staunch  and  true  a  nature 
that  she  could  not  understand  that  a  man,  who  should 
be  stronger  than  a  woman,  could  ever  waver  where  he 
had  given  his  word.  When  she  had  plighted  her  troth 
to  Paul  she  had  done  so  in  no  light  spirit.  She  had 
given  him  her  love  and  her  heart  freely  and  frankly,  and 
it  was  inconceivable  to  her  that  she  should  ever  take 
back  such  gifts,  or  that  having  once  accepted  them  Paul 
should  desire  to  return  both  to  her. 

Yet — what  was  she  to  think  during  all  that  long 
silence?  Either  he  was  dead  or  he  had  ceased  to  love  her. 
Either  alternative  was  terrible,  but  the  uncertainty  of 

231 


232        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

not  knowing  which  one  to  believe  was  even  worse.  She 
had  no  one  to  whom  she  could  voice  her  troubles,  for 
having  given  her  promise  to  her  uncle  to  let  the  matter 
rest  for  a  year  she  felt  in  honour  bound  not  to  betray  to 
him  that  she  was  anxious  as  to  the  issue.  To  seek  for 
sympathy  at  the  hands  of  her  aunt  or  cousins  would  be 
mere  idle  waste  of  time.  Lily  Baumer  had  gone  back  to 
Germany  to  be  married,  and  even  if  she  had  been  still  in 
London  she  was  scarcely  the  kind  of  girl  before  whom 
Rosamund  would  have  laid  bare  the  secrets  of  her  soul. 
A  loyal  friend  is  not  always  a  sympathetic  one,  and 
Rosamund  was  too  keenly  jealous  of  her  own  and  her 
lover's  honour  to  run  the  risk  of  being  the  subject  of 
light-hearted  discussion  over  a  tea-table  or  girlish  con- 
fidence at  hair-brushing  time.  So  she  had  nursed  her 
sorrow  in  her  heart,  and  like  all  secrets  it  had  fed  upon 
her  and  sapped  her  energy  and  strength  and  robbed  all 
her  life  of  its  savour. 

Even  when  the  passage  of  the  weeks  brought  the  end 
of  the  twelve  months  nearer,  Rosamund  found  that  no 
anticipation  of  happiness  stirred  in  her  bosom.  She 
could  not  bring  herself  to  believe  that  any  good  was  in 
store  for  her,  for  although  her  healthy  life  had  prevented 
her  from  acquiring  a  morbid  turn  of  mind,  she  was  just 
now  in  a  sufficiently  nervous,  depressed  condition  to  feel 
sometimes  as  though  fate  were  her  enemy. 

Little  things,  too,  troubled  her  as  they  had  never 
done  before.  Mrs.  Kerquham,  for  some  reason  of  her 
own,  had  suddenly  taken  to  having  long  and  confidential 
talks  with  Rosamund.  These  interviews,  which  would 
commence  with  a  few  generalities,  invariably  drifted  to 
the  well-worn  subject  of  Laura  and  her  delinquencies. 
In  spite  of  her  faults,  her  mother  was  proud  of  her,  for 
she  was  undeniably  pretty  and  smart.  But  Mrs.  Kerqu- 


THE   TORTURE  OF  TANTALUS  233 

ham's  pride  was  her  own  punishment,  for  she  had  always 
looked  for  Laura's  advancement  by  marriage,  and  each 
day  that  went  by  put  such  a  contingency  more  out  of 
the  question.  The  girl  herself  was  growing  embittered 
by  her  failure  to  make  a  good  settlement,  and  each  out- 
break of  temper  was  always  the  forerunner  of  a  fresh 
escapade,  which,  as  time  went  on,  grew  more  and  more 
socially  flagrant. 

Mrs.  Kerquham,  her  own  health  shaken  by  her  illness 
of  the  previous  winter,  had  once  gone  so  far  as  posi- 
tively to  weep  before  Laura  and  entreat  her  to  moderate 
in  some  degree  her  outrageous  conduct.  Only  the  day 
before  that  scene  Laura  had  been  cut  in  the  park  by  a 
very  influential  lady,  and  smarting  under  what  she  con- 
sidered a  gross  insult,  was  more  set  than  ever  on  defy- 
ing society  and  all  its  ways,  and  upon  making  her  own 
life  and  getting  what  fun  she  could  out  of  it. 

"You  will  never  marry  now,  Laura,"  moaned  Mrs. 
Kerquham;  "or  if  you  do,  it  will  be  some  wretched  boy 
with  a  few  hundreds  a  year,  and  then  all  the  world  will 
write  you  down  as  a  failure." 

"I'm  not  likely  to  marry  in  that  kind  of  way,  mother, 
and  you  know  it,"  snapped  Laura.  "But  I  must  have 
my  fun,  and  you  don't  take  us  out  nearly  as  much  as  you 
used,  so  I  have  to  go  my  own  way." 

"But,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Kerquham,  giving 
way  to  feminine  weakness  and  wringing  her  hands,  "I'm 
not  strong  enough  nowadays  to  take  you  out  and  chape- 
rone  you  to  good  houses.  You  know  that  the  doctors 
have  forbidden  me  to  go  out  at  night,  and  these  great 
afternoon  crushes  make  me  ill  for  days." 

"Very  well,  then,  don't  complain  if  I  go  about  with 
other  people." 

"But  it  will  be  your  ruin,  my  dear." 


234        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Ruin!  Fiddlesticks!  Why  did  you  let  Honor 
engage  herself  to  that  booby?  She  should  have  married 
well,  and  then  she  could  have  chaperoned  me  properly. 
Nothing  gets  a  girl  married  so  well  as  when  her  sister 
makes  a  good  match." 

"I  know  that;  I  know  that,  Laura,"  said  Mrs.  Ker- 
quham.  "But  Honor — " 

"Oh,  Honor  is  a  cat,  and  of  course  no  man  in  his 
senses  would  have  her — but  there  is  Rosamund." 

"Ah!  Rosamund  is  a  great  disappointment  to  both 
your  father  and  myself, "  wailed  Mrs.  Kerquham.  "If 
she  had  married  where  she  might  have  done,  she  could 
have  taken  you  into  the  very  best  society  in  London, 
and  with  your  face  and  clever  ways  and  the  money  that 
your  father  will  settle  upon  you,  you  might  have  made  a 
brilliant  match  by  this  time." 

"Then  blame  Rosamund  and  not  me  for  it,"  cried 
Laura,  as  she  flung  out  of  the  room. 

And  Rosamund  was  blamed  accordingly,  sometimes 
openly  and  sometimes  by  inference,  when  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham would  retail  with  tears  and  sighs  Laura's  latest 
outrages. 

Rosamund  gradually  grew  to  know  what  it  all  meant. 
She  realised  that  the  pressure  that  was  being  brought  to 
bear  on  her  to  accept  Lord  St.  Ives  when  next  it  pleased 
him  to  propose  was  becoming  greater  day  by  day.  She 
had  fought  against  it  all  last  autumn,  and  had  been 
thankful  for  the  respite  that  the  spring  had  brought  her, 
but  now  in  mid-season,  worn  out  in  body,  sick  and  dis- 
appointed at  heart,  wearying  for  the  love  and  sympathy 
that  seemed  further  away  than  ever,  it  was  a  very  hard 
struggle  for  the  girl.  She  dreaded  the  time  when  her 
own  strength  should  give  way,  and  she  should  weakly 
yield  and  be  forced  to  marry  Lord  St.  Ives  and  to  take 


THE   TORTURE   OF  TANTALUS  235 

Laura  under  her  wing  for  the  purpose  of  socially  white- 
washing her  and  finding  her  a  husband.  Every  week 
her  courage  slipped  further  from  her,  and  as  the  June 
days  passed  by  and  still  no  news  came  from  Paul  her  last 
hopes  of  resistance  died  within  her,  and  she  almost  made 
up  her  mind  that  the  end  was  very  near. 

It  was  late  afternoon  in  the  big  drawing-room  at  "The 
Hurst."  A  few  people  had  been  in  to  tea  and  tennis, 
but  they  had  gone  now.  The  lawns  were  shady,  and  the 
gardeners  were  watering  the  hot  earth,  which  steamed 
and  smoked  after  the  baking  it  had  had  all  day.  At  the 
end  of  the  avenue  Honor  and  her  husband,  who  were 
spending  the  season  at  "The  Hurst,"  were  making  up 
one  of  their  daily  quarrels.  Laura  had  gone  to  her  room 
to  dress  for  dinner  with  some  friends  of  hers.  Mrs. 
Kerquham  was  lying  on  a  sofa  in  the  window.  She  was 
worn  and  aged,  and  her  once  abundant  iron-grey  hair 
looked  sparse  and  faded  where  it  was  brushed  back 
from  her  temples  over  a  cushion.  Close  by  the  tea- 
table,  where  she  had  sat  all  the  afternoon,  was  Rosa- 
mund. She  was  quite  idle,  and  her  hands,  which  were 
thinner  and  more  transparent  than  they  used  to  be,  were 
limply  crossed  on  her  knee.  Her  head  drooped  a  little 
over  one  shoulder,  and  the  long  lashes  of  her  lowered  lids 
swept  over  her  pale  cheeks.  Alban  Kerquham  looked 
over  the  top  of  his  evening  paper  at  the  girl. 

"How  white  and  tired  she  looks,"  he  thought.  "I 
wish  I  had  held  to  my  determination  not  to  come  to 
town  this  year.  Things  are  going  so  awry  here  this 
year.  The  house  isn't  a  bit  like  it  used  to  be." 

A  sharp  ring  at  the  door  bell  echoed  through  the 
silent  house.  Mrs.  Kerquham  heaved  a  little  sigh  from 
the  sofa,  and  Rosamund,  with  her  neat  instincts,  began 
mechanically  to  separate  the  used  from  the  unused  tea- 


236        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

cups.  Across  the  hall  and  down  the  long  corridor  came 
the  echo  of  swiftly  advancing  footsteps.  Some  reminis- 
cent ring  in  them  struck  Rosamund's  ears,  and  she  rose 
slowly  to  her  feet  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  door.  A 
second  later  and  it  was  flung  wide,  and  "Mr.  Carr"  was 
announced  in  a  loud  voice  by  the  footman. 

Mr.  Kerquham  started  up  at  the  sound  of  that  well 
remembered  name,  and  Mrs.  Kerquham  rose,  frigid  and 
stern,  from  her  sofa.  Rosamund  swayed  a  little,  but 
uttered  no  cry,  only  a  china  cup  she  had  been  holding 
in  her  fingers  slipped  to  the  floor  and  broke  with  a  little 
tinkle  at  her  feet. 

"Mr.  Kerquham,  how  do  you  do?  Mrs.  Kerquham — " 
Paul  bowed  across  the  room  to  her.  Then  he  advanced 
with  outstretched  hands — "Rosamund!  my  darling!" 

But  Rosamund  did  not  move.  She  felt  that  the  only 
chance  of  keeping  her  senses  at  all  was  to  cling  to  the 
side  of  the  table  and  remain  silent.  But  her  eyes  burned 
like  great  stars  in  her  pale  face,  devouring  Paul's  every 
feature,  his  every  attitude. 

"Mr.  Carr,"  began  Mr.  Kerquham,  in  his  coldest 
manner,  "what  does  this  mean?  By  what  right  do  you 
come  here  without  first  communicating  with  me?" 

"The  right  that  you  yourself  gave  me  a  year  ago. 
You  parted  Rosamund  from  me  for  twelve  months.  The 
time  is  passed.  I  have  come  back  to  see  her  now,  and 
to  ask  her  once  again  the  question  she  answered  so 
sweetly  before.  Rosamund,  my  love,  I  want  you  for  my 
wife.  Will  you  marry  me?" 

A  little  cry  came  from  her  parted  lips,  a  cry  of 
ineffable  happiness  and  deepest  love,  but  still  she  did 
not  move. 

"My  niece  is  scarcely  at  liberty  to  answer  you,"  said 
Mr.  Kerquham.  "She  owes  a  duty  to  us  all — " 


THE   TORTURE   OF  TANTALUS  237 

"Which  she  has  paid  long  ago,"  retorted  Paul. 
"You  only  have  to  look  at  her  face  to  see  at  what  cost 
she  has  discharged  her  debt.  Have  you  no  eyes  that 
you  cannot  see  the  change  in  her?  Rosamund,  my  poor 
love,  what  have  they  been  doing  to  you?" 

He  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  and  she,  as  though  drawn 
by  some  will  stronger  than  her  own,  went  slowly  to  him 
and  hid  her  face  above  his  heart. 

"Alban,  are  you  going  to  allow  this?"  said  Mrs. 
Kerquham,  her  voice  trembling  with  passion.  "Are 
you  going  to  permit  this  gentleman  to  take  Rosamund  in 
this  fashion  without  one  word  from  us,  without  even  ask- 
ing our  consent,  or  explaining  anything  to  us?" 

"I  am  ready  to  explain  everything,"  cried  Paul,  hold- 
ing Rosamund  in  his  arms,  "and  to  ask  you  in  due  form, 
as  indeed  I  do  now,  for  your  niece's  hand.  But  I  warn 
you  beforehand,  I  will  not  take  'No'  for  an  answer.  I 
yielded  to  your  wishes  a  year  ago,  because  I  felt  that, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  at  that  time  my  position  might  bring 
some  degree  of  trouble  to  Rosamund;  but  this  time 
things  are  different.  I  come  to  you  with  a  perfectly 
clear  record.  There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  be 
married  and  go  away  and  live  at  my  own  place  in  my 
own  county.  I  have  been  there  for  the  last  three  weeks, 
setting  everything  in  order,  and  every  one  is  waiting  to 
welcome  me  back  with  my  bride.  You  have  no  reason 
now  for  delaying  our  marriage,  and  it  is  merely  as  a 
matter  of  courtesy  that  I  ask  your  consent  to  it." 

Mrs.  Kerquham  was  about  to  break  forth  again  when 
her  husband  interposed.  Paul's  words  had  given  him 
time  to  reflect,  and  he  had  seen  that  in  his  niece's  face 
during  the  last  few  moments  which  had  appealed  to  him 
more  than  anything  else  could  have  done.  He  had  seen 
patience  and  suffering  and  love;  and  the  affection  that 


238        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

he  bore  her  reminded  him  that  her  future  happiness 
was  very  dear  to  him.  Turning  to  his  wife  he  urged  her 
to  leave  the  room. 

"A  scene  will  only  make  you  ill  again,"  he  said, 
kindly.  "You  had  best  go  and  lie  down  upstairs.  I 
promise  you  that  nothing  shall  be  definitely  settled  until 
I  have  seen  you  again. " 

He  led  her  to  the  door,  and  she,  whose  spirit  had 
been  broken  by  worry  and  illness,  feeling  that  she  had 
done  her  duty  by  making  such  protest  as  she  had  uttered, 
was  not  sorry  to  leave  the  burden  of  the  fight  upon  her 
husband's  broad  shoulders. 

"You  had  better  come  to  my  room;  we  shall  not  b£ 
interrupted  there,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham,  still  with  the 
door  open  in  his  hand,  and  Paul,  loosing  Rosamund  from 
his  embrace  but  still  holding  one  of  her  hands  in  his, 
followed  Mr.  Kerquham  to  the  studio. 

"Now,  Mr.  Carr, "  said  Mr.  Kerquham,  "let  us  talk 
this  matter  over  quietly  and  without  prejudice.  I  wish, 
first  of  all,  however,  to  assure  you  that  my  chiefest  care  is 
for  my  niece's  happiness.  Rosamund  is  as  dear  to  me 
as  though  she  were  my  own  daughter,  and  in  addition  to 
that  I  feel  towards  her  the  responsibility  that  must  ever 
lie  with  a  man  who  is  placed  in  the  position  of  trust  as  a 
guardian.  It  was  that  very  sense  of  responsibility  that 
urged  me  to  act  as  I  did  a  year  ago,  and  you  will  have 
to  allay  that  sense,  as  well  as  satisfy  my  affectionate 
solicitude  for  this  dear  child,  before  I  can  consent  to 
your  marrying  her." 

Paul  placed  Rosamund  tenderly  in  a  chair.  She  was 
looking  very  white  and  her  mouth  was  quivering,  and 
now  and  then  the  tears  rolled  from  her  eyes  over  her 
pale  cheeks.  He  stood  beside  her  as  though  she  were  a 


THE   TORTURE   OF  TANTALUS  239 

precious  thing  he  had  just  regained  and  from  which  he 
could  not  be  parted. 

"Mr.  Kerquham,"  began  Paul,  "I  have  merely  tried 
to  fulfil  the  conditions  you  imposed  upon  me.  I  have 
been  living  at  peace  with  my  fellowmen  and  out  of  reach 
of  every  possible  temptation  to  which  I  might,  in  my 
loneliness  and  despair,  have  succumbed." 

"You  have  been  living  in  a  monastery,  have  you  not?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  go  there  with  any  idea  of  taking  the  vows 
in  due  time?" 

Paul  hesitated  a  moment  before  he  spoke.  It  was  a 
difficult  question  to  answer. 

"I  was  very  unhappy  when  I  determined  to  cut  myself 
off  from  the  world.  I  felt  that,  with  the  exception  of 
Rosamund,  I  never  wished  to  see  any  one  again.  You 
may  say  I  took  an  exaggerated  view  of  the  case.  Per- 
haps I  did — but,  Mr.  Kerquham,  you  must  forgive  me  if 
I  tell  you  that  it  was  your  action  that  warped  my  judg- 
ment of  the  world.  True,  I  was  deeply  wounded  by 
the  slights  of  an  idle  society  and  the  cold  shoulder  of  the 
clubs.  But  everything  in  our  world  is  only  a  nine  days' 
wonder,  and  I  knew  that  the  very  people  who  did  not  ask 
me  to  their  parties  in  the  summer  would  be  very  pleased  to 
come  and  shoot  with  me  in  the  autumn.  It  was  your  action 
about  Rosamund,  and  the  view  you  took  of  matters,  that 
made  me  regard  the  whole  business  with  a  distorted 
vision.  I  felt  that  if  Rosamund  was  too  good  for  me, 
then  I  was  too  bad  for  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  that  the 
sooner  I  cut  myself  away  from  it  and  went  somewhere 
where  my  history  would  be  unknown  and  my  very  name 
changed,  it  would  be  best.  But  I  can  say  with  truth 
that  when  I  did  take  up  my  novitiate  at  the  monastery 


240        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

I  did  so  with  the  absolute  intention  of  leaving  that  place 
at  the  time  my  novitiate  expired." 

"Then  you  have  left  the  monastery  for  good?" 
queried  Mr.  Kerquham. 

"Absolutely  and  forever.  Even  if  I  did  wish  to  stay 
they  would  not  have  me,  for  they  found  I  had  no  voca- 
tion for  a  monk's  life." 

"And  you  still  love  Rosamund?"  said  Mr.  Kerquham. 

For  all  answer  Paul  stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the 
mouth. 

"The  marriage  must  be  a  very  quiet  one,"  said  Mr. 
Kerquham;  "for  though  you  are  in  every  other  respect 
a  good  match  for  my  niece,  the  circumstances  of  the 
past  year  had  best  not  be  in  any  way  raked  up." 

"So  that  you  give  her  to  me,  I  don't  mind  how  she 
comes." 

Mr.  Kerquham  looked  at  his  niece.  Already  there 
was  a  radiant  glow  in  her  face,  and  her  eyes  shone  like 
jewels  as  she  looked  up  at  her  lover.  He  turned  his 
back  on  the  pair  for  a  moment,  and  feigned  to  be  busy 
at  his  painting  table  setting  his  brushes  straight  and 
tidying  a  heap  of  paints.  There  was  one  question  he 
still  had  to  ask,  and  he  was  coward  enough  not  to  want 
to  look  at  the  two  when  he  did  so. 

"Are  you  still  a  professing  Roman  Catholic?" 

"Of  course  I  am,"  answered  Paul  Carr,  straightly. 
"I  was  baptised  into  that  church;  I  have  never  had  any 
other." 

A  silence  fell,  and  Rosamund  felt  the  blood  go  back 
from  her  face  and  lie  cold  about  her  heart.  She  slipped 
her  trembling  fingers  into  Paul's  hand  and  clung  to  him 
as  a  frightened  child  clings  to  one  it  trusts  and  loves. 

"Has  it  ever  struck  you,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham,  still 


THE   TORTURE   OF   TANTALUS  241 

from  the  far  end  of  the  dim  studio,  "that  your  religion  is 
likely  to  prove  a  bar  to  your  marriage  with  my  niece?" 

Paul  drew  in  his  breath  sharply  before  he  answered. 

"That  did  not  strike  me,  Mr.  Kerquham.  I  did  not 
know — I  did  not  think — that  in  these  days  a  mere  ques- 
tion of  formula  could  weigh  in  such  a  matter  as  the  mar- 
riage of  two  people  who  love  each  other." 

The  studio  was  almost  dark,  for  the  sun  had  set  in  the 
west,  and  only  a  little  pale  reflected  light  shone  through 
the  north  window.  Mr.  Kerquham's  broad  figure  was 
scarcely  visible  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  and  his 
voice  came  like  the  voice  of  fate  out  of  the  clouds. 

"Then,  Mr.  Carr,  I  am  afraid  that  for  the  moment  I 
can  give  you  no  definite  answer  on  the  question  of  your 
marriage  with  Rosamund.  I  owe  it  to  her  and  to  myself 
to  lay  the  whole  question  before  her  father's  family,  who 
confided  her  to  me  twenty  years  ago.  You  must  under- 
stand that  they  never  heard  of  the  first  engagement 
between  you.  I  must  now  write  and  submit  the  whole 
thing  to  them,  and  I  must  ask  you  to  wait  until  I  have 
their  opinion  before  you  can  consider  yourself  bound  to 
her. ' ' 

"But,  sir,  this  is  too  cruel,"  cried  Paul,  urged  to 
expostulate  by  the  white  and  drawn  face  at  his  side. 

"Uncle,  must  this  be  so?"  said  Rosamund. 

Mr.  Kerquham  came  out  of  the  shadows  into  the  ring 
of  pale  light  that  still  gleamed  in  the  centre  of  the  floor. 

"My  child,  you  know  it  must  be,  but  I  promise  you 
I  will  urge  them  to  give  an  unqualified  consent,  for  I 
think  myself  that  your  happiness  is  bound  up  in  Mr. 
Carr." 

"But  when  will  you  write?  How  soon?"  she  cried, 
stretching  out  imploring  hands  to  him. 


242         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"I  will  write  to-night  to  the  earl  and  to  Lady  Sophia, 
and  I  will  call  to-morrow  on  Lady  Charlotte  Lundy. " 

"How  long  will  it  be  before  you  know?"  asked  Paul 
in  a  low,  choked  voice. 

"Four  days  at  the  shortest,  more  likely  a  week. 
Until  I  communicate  with  you,  Mr.  Carr,  I  must  trust 
to  your  honour  as  a  gentleman — " 

"Not  to  see  her  again?"  cried  Paul. 

"Oh!  uncle,  you  cannot  be  so  cruel  as  that!" 
entreated  Rosamund. 

Almost  Alban  Kerquham  yielded,  but  he  felt  that  if 
at  the  very  last  moment  the  cup  was  to  be  snatched  from 
their  too  eager  mouths,  it  were  best  that  they  should 
not  even  catch  the  savour  of  it. 

"I  think  it  is  best  that  you  should  not  meet,  and  I 
trust  you  both  in  this  matter." 

"Oh,  it  is  cruel,  cruel!"  cried  Rosamund,  leaning  her 
face  against  the  back  of  Paul's  hand  and  letting  the 
tears  run  unrestrainedly  down  her  cheeks. 

"Mr.  Carr,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham  in  a  low  voice,  "I 
trust  you  to  give  her  strength,  and  then  not  to  see  her 
again  until  you  hear  from  me." 

He  walked  out  of  the  studio,  leaving  the^n  alone  in 
the  dusk  to  crush  into  the  next  ten  minutes  all  the  bit- 
terness of  the  past,  all  the  pain  of  the  present,  and  all  the 
sweetness  of  the  future  that  they  hoped  for. 

The  moon  was  rising  in  the  clear  sky  when  Paul  left 
the  house.  It  flung  its  beams  through  the  tall  studio 
window  and  flooded  with  silver  the  old  Persian  rugs  that 
covered  the  floor.  Wider  and  wider  its  radiance  grew, 
till  it  embraced  within  its  magic  circle  the  prone  form  of 
Rosamund,  who  lay,  face  downwards  on  the  floor,  weep- 
ing bitterly. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

"YES" 

WHEN  Paul  left  "The  Hurst,"  and  by  the  light  of  the 
rising  moon  paced  down  the  leafy  roads  of  Campden 
Hill,  his  heart  was  light  within  him,  for  he  could  not 
conceive  that  such  love  as  Rosamund  and  he  bore  each 
other  could  go  unrequited.  He  could  not  find  it  in  him 
to  chide  Rosamund  for  her  tears  and  doubts,  for  he 
ascribed  her  nervous  breakdown  to  over-excitement. 
That  for  a  mere  quibble  of  belief,  a  different  form  of 
worshipping  the  same  great  God,  the  marriage  would  be 
forbidden,  seemed  to  him — sanguine  with  high  hope  and 
still  thrilling  at  Rosamund's  remembered  touch  and 
voice — little  more  than  absurd. 

In  a  few  days  all  would  be  well,  and  they  would  be 
married  quietly  and  at  once.  With  the  swinging,  long 
stride  of  a  happy  man  he  threaded  the  crowded  streets, 
making  his  way,  not  to  his  own  rooms  in  Piccadilly,  but 
to  a  small  hotel  in  the  unfashionable  Bloomsbury  district. 

His  absence  from  the  world  and  the  circumstances 
which  led  to  it  had  made  him  rather  shy  of  returning 
immediately  to  his  old  haunts,  and  no  one  knew  he  was 
in  town.  At  times  he  felt  strangely  like  a  man  who 
after  an  illness  rises  from  a  sick  bed  and  essays  to  walk 
alone.  He  wanted  some  one  to  lean  upon,  some  one  to 
be  always  with  him,  some  one  to  whom  he  could  talk 
and  tell  all  his  thoughts  and  the  disappointments  he  had 
suffered  in  the  monastery.  That  some  one  was  Rosa- 

243 


244        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

mund.  Her  strong  nature,  he  knew,  would  complete  the 
healing  which  had  already  begun,  and  with  her  by  his 
side  he  felt  sure  that  mind  and  heart  would  recover  their 
healthy  elasticity.  All  this  he  had  felt  before  he  had 
seen  her  that  afternoon,  but  now  that  he  had  touched 
her  hand  and  held  her  in  his  arms,  had  noted  the  many 
subtle  changes  that  had  come  over  her,  and  been  witness 
to  her  grief  at  the  idea  of  a  further  separation  from  him, 
all  that  was  best  in  his  manhood  was  aroused,  and  he 
forgot  his  own  weaknesses  and  personal  anxieties  in  a 
mad  desire  to  take  her  to  him  and  bring  the  colour  back 
to  her  cheeks  and  the  light  of  love  and  happiness  to  her 
sad  eyes. 

Yet  as  his  first  elation  and  certainty  of  success  cooled 
down  it  was  scarcely  strange  that  he  should  chafe  a  little 
at  the  fresh  barrier  that  Mr.  Kerquham's  sense  of 
responsibility  to  the  family  had  raised  in  his  path. 
Surely  time  enough  had  been  wasted ;  they  had  lost  a 
whole  year  out  of  their  lives — a  year  that  might  have 
been  so  happy  and  that  had  been  so  barren  of  joy  and 
empty  of  result.  And  then  he  fell  to  wondering  as  he 
walked  whether  the  time  had  been  really  lost  with  him, 
whether  the  months  in  the  monastery  had  been  mis- 
spent, whether  his  reception  into  Roman  Catholicism 
had  been  a  mistake,  a  mere  foolish  ebullition  of  hyster- 
ical and  ill-controlled  emotion.  He  needed  a  wiser  head 
to  decide  the  question  for  him,  for  the  past  year's  reli- 
ance on  the  judgment  of  others  and  his  submission  to  a 
life  ordered  by  strict  rule  had  weakened  his  own  purpose 
and  filled  him  with  doubt  as  to  his  own  judgment  on  any 
point.  He  must  wait  five  days,  a  week  if  necessary, 
until  he  saw  Rosamund  again. 

That  evening  the  time  of  waiting  stretched  before  his 
impatient  mind  to  an  interminable  length.  But  when  a 


"  TBS  "  245 

few  mornings  later  his  man  brought  his  letters  from 
Piccadilly  and  he  saw  her  dear,  well-known  handwriting 
among  them,  the  past  hours  of  anticipation  seemed  as 
though  they  had  been  all  too  short. 

<4Mv  DEAR  PAUL: 

"Will  you  come  and  see  me  to-day? 

"Yours  ever  and  ever, 

"ROSAMUND." 

The  words  had  neither  good  news  nor  bad;  they 
were  reticent  and  reserved  almost  to  a  fault.  But 
through  the  veil  Paul  caught  the  magnetism  of  joy  and 
guessed  that  all  was  well. 

If  he  had  doubted,  one  glance  at  her  dear  face  must 
have  reassured  him,  when,  later  in  the  day,  he  was  ush- 
ered into  the  studio  at  "The  Hurst."  A  delicious  blush, 
a  lovely  happy  smile,  formed  her  silent  greeting  to  her 
lover,  as  with  punctilious  respect  he  crossed  the  wide 
room  to  greet  Mr.  Kerquham. 

The  firm,  long  hand-clasp  over,  Paul  was  free  to  turn 
and  with  outstretched  arms  cry  to  her  to  come  to  him. 
Like  a  tired  bird  she  crept  to  his  embrace,  trembling 
with  happiness,  tearful  with  joy. 

"At  last!  my  love!  at  last!"  he  murmured,  bending 
his  face  down  to  her  rippling  tresses. 

"At  last!  dear  Paul,"  she  whispered  back  to  him. 

"Yes!  young  people,  you  may  well  say  'at  last!'  But 
it  has  been  a  hardly  grudged  consent,  I  can  tell  you,  and 
Mr.  Carr,  if  I  had  been  anything  but  well-disposed 
towards  you — and  most  anxious  for  my  dearest  ward's 
happiness — I  am  not  sure  but  that  I  could  have  put 
another  interpretation  on  these  letters." 

There  were  tears  in  Mr.  Kerquham's  kindly  eyes  as 


246        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

he  seated  himself  and    pulled   from  the  pocket  of   his 
well-worn  painting  jacket  three  letters. 

"Sit  down,  and  I  will  read  you  what  is  necessary." 
A  grim  smile  crossed  his  face.  "I  think  you  had  bet- 
ter not  see  the  letters  in  entirety.  They  are  not  uni- 
formly pleasant." 

The  first  he  spread  upon  his  knee  was  written  in  a 
square,  wavering  hand  on  old-fashioned  paper. 

"From  Lord  Kilbeggie.  He  begins  with  an  exordium 
on  the  merits  of  the  Church  of  Scotland,  and  a  — well  a 
sweeping  condemnation  of  your  faith,  Mr.  Carr.  He 
goes  on  with  a  lament  about  the  wilfulness  of  modern 
girls  and  the  lack  of  deference  they  show  to  their  elders. 
He  ends  by  saying,  'If  she  will  marry  this  Papist,  she 
will,  for  Rosamund  has  something  of  the  family  spirit  in 
her.  I  will  send  her  as  a  gift  the  Cairngorm  necklace  I 
should  have  given  her  mother  had  she  lived — but  you 
may  tell  her  I  never  wish  to  see  her  again.'  ' 

"Oh,  uncle,"  cried  Rosamund,  "Lord  Kilbeggie  is 
very  hard." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Kerquham,  laying  aside  the 
letter,  "ten  years  ago  you  would  never  have  won  even 
so  half-hearted  a  consent  from  him.  But  he  is  very  old 
and  breaking  fast  nowadays.  Be  content  with  small 
mercies.  Lady  Charlotte  Lundy  begins  her  letter  less 
pleasantly.  She  considers  you  have  deceived  your 
cousin  Hamish." 

They  all  laughed,  the  clear,  happy  laugh  of  people 
who  can  afford  to  make  merry  over  others'  disappoint- 
ments. 

"I  never  could  dissuade  her,"  went  on  Mr.  Kerqu- 
ham, "that  such  a  marriage  was  out  of  the  question. 
She  made  up  her  mind  to  it  when  you  were  a  little  child, 
and  she's  a  tenacious  person.  She  quotes  largely  from 


"  TES  "  247 

V 

Sir  Alexander's  opinions — which  are  rather  uncompli- 
mentary— and  then,  like  a  true  woman,  wants  to  know 
the  date  of  the  wedding,  and  who  is  going  to  make  your 
frock.  Ah !  Rosamund,  your  sex  loves  a  marriage  even  if 
it  is  not  one  they  care  about.  By-the-bye,  in  a  postscript 
she  offers  to  find  you  a  staff  of  servants.  'Girls  are  so 
lamentably  ignorant  on  such  points. '  I  think  we  may 
take  it  as  a  consent." 

Rosamund  and  Paul,  who  had  been  listening  with 
clasped  hands  and  smiling  mouths,  looked  with  love- 
laden  eyes  at  each  other.  So  they  might  marry,  what 
did  it  matter  what  was  said? 

"My  third  letter  is  from  Lady  Sophia  Kerquham. 
She  writes  temperately,  Rosamund,  but  sadly.  She  was 
always  fond  of  you,  and  bewails  the  barrier  that  must 
shut  you  out  of  her  life.  But  she  sends  you  her  blessing 
and  prayers  that  you  may  be  very  happy." 

"Poor  Aunt  Sophia,"  murmured  Rosamund,  gently. 

"So  you  see,  Mr.  Carr,  the  family  allow  me  to  give 
you  my  niece  and  ward." 

Alban  Kerquham  rose  and  came  towards  them.  The 
hands  he  held  out  to  them  trembled,  and  his  voice  was 
veiled  with  emotion. 

"Paul!  in  giving  you  Rosamund  I  am  giving  you  the 
best  and  dearest  part  of  myself.  That  you  love  her  loy- 
ally I  am  sure — that  you  will  be  kind  to  her  I  believe. 
Only  in  one  thing  will  I  charge  you — never  betray  her. 
She  is  the  soul  of  truth  and  honour.  If  you,  willingly 
or  otherwise,  deceive  her — if  once  you  shake  the  per- 
fect faith  she  has  in  you,  you  will  break  her  heart." 

He  moved  towards  the  door.  "Rosamund,  dear, 
come  presently  to  the  drawing-room.  You  aunt  will  like 
to  see  you  both." 

Then  followed  a  rose-coloured  week — a  week  of  days 


248        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

all  pleasure  and  joy,  and  evenings  all  peace  and  love. 
Night  after  night  Paul  and  Rosamund  stood  hand  in 
hand  and  heart  to  heart  in  the  long  avenue  beneath  the 
tree  where  a  year  ago  they  had  plighted  their  troth,  and 
where  now — as  then — a  nightingale  poured  out  his  amo- 
rous lay  to  the  summer  moon. 

They  wondered  sometimes  if  it  was  the  same  bird 
which  had  hymned  their  betrothal  and  now  chanted  their 
epithalamium. 

Mrs.  Kerquham,  forced  at  last  to  abandon  her  cher- 
ished dreams  of  Rosamund's  future,  had  decided  to 
make  the  best  of  what  in  her  heart  she  considered  a  bad 
job.  Still,  things  might  be  worse.  Paul  was  rich  and 
full  of  hospitable  instincts.  Under  the  cegis  of  himself 
and  Rosamund,  Laura  might  see  a  great  deal  of  pleasant 
society,  might  yacht,  hunt,  travel,  and  finally  pick  up 
that  long-sought-for  husband.  So  Mrs.  Kerquham,  filled 
with  hopeful  anticipations,  made  herself  as  pleasant  as 
she  could  to  the  young  couple,  and  entered  with  such 
animation  as  her  health  permitted  into  preparations  for 
a  speedy  wedding. 

The  day  had  been  fixed  and  all  preliminaries  arranged. 
Rather  to  Laura's  disgust,  the  affair  was  to  be  very 
quiet. 

On  that  Paul  had  insisted,  and  Mr.  Kerquham,  who 
feared  over-exertion  for  his  wife,  had  strongly  supported 
him. 

Out  in  the  garden,  now  but  feebly  lit  by  a  waning 
moon,  Rosamund  was  saying  "good  night"  to  Paul. 
Her  slender  hands,  white  and  light  as  lily  leaves,  rested 
on  his  shoulders.  Her  pure  face,  radiant  with  love  and 
happiness,  was  raised  to  his. 

"Darling,  how  few  more  times  have  we  to  say  'good- 
bye!' "  she  whispered. 


"Not  many  now,  sweetheart!  Now  that  our  marriage 
day  is  fixed,  I  feel  nearer,  closer  to  you — almost  as 
though  we  belonged  to  each  other.  Nothing  can  part  us 
now!" 

"Hush!  hush!"  she  cried,  one  hand  across  his  mouth. 
"You  should  not  boast.  It  is  tempting  Providence." 

"Providence!  Do  you  not  think  we  have  been  the 
sport  of  Providence  long  enough?" 

Rosamund  shivered  as  she  drew  closer  to  him  and 
her  face  grew  pale. 

"One  never  knows!"  she  murmured. 

"Foolish  little  love!"  laughed  Paul,  kissing  the  colour 
back  to  her  face.  "Providence  has  given  us  one  week 
of  heaven — just  as  a  taste,  you  know — to  prepare  us  for 
more.  You're  trembling  again,  dear  heart.  You  must 
go  indoors.  There's  a  cool  breeze  blowing  up  and  your 
pretty  gown  is  too  thin.  Good  night.  God  bless  you." 

A  moment  later  the  echo  of  Paul's  steps  died  away, 
and  she  went  back  into  the  house  to  the  discussion  of 
gowns  and  hats,  shoes  and  coats,  and  all  the  details  of  a 
luxurious  trousseau. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

"NO!" 

As  Paul  strolled  down  the  hill  a  neighbouring  church 
clock  struck  ten.  How  early  it  was.  What  should  he 
do?  Music  halls — the  Exhibition — ?  No!  he  would  pay 
a  long-owed,  long-neglected  visit.  He  would  go  down 
to  the  East  End  and  try  to  see  Father  Gregory. 

It  was  a  long  distance,  and  clear  as  the  streets  were 
it  was  fully  an  hour  later  before  he  arrived  at  the 
familiar  doorway  in  the  little  Whitechapel  street.  He 
was  told  in  answer  to  his  ring  that  Father  Gregory  was  in 
his  cell,  but  very  ill  and  unable  to  see  any  one. 

"But  surely  he  will  see  me,"  Paul  argued  with  the 
lay  brother  at  the  door. 

"I  don't  think  he  can  see  any  one,"  said  the  man 
sadly.  "An  hour  ago  he  received  the  last  offices  of  the 
Church  and  he  is  very  weak." 

"The  last  office  of  the  Church!"  cried  Paul.  "Is 
Father  Gregory  dying?" 

"They  say  he  cannot  live  through  the  night." 

"I  beg  you  to  find  out  if  I  cannot  speak  to  him,  if  it 
is  only  for  a  few  minutes." 

Moved  by  his  agitation,  and  remembering  the  friend- 
ship that  had  existed  between  the  good  monk  and  the 
young  man  a  year  ago,  the  lay  brother  went  to  inquire 
if  the  dying  father  could  see  Paul  Carr.  He  seemed  gone 
for  ages,  and  Paul,  sitting  in  the  dim  corridor,  which  was 
draughty  and  damp  even  on  this  warm  summer's  night, 

250 


"NOf"  251 

felt  the  cold  sense  of  a  coming  change  creeping  over  his 
heart.  The  intense  happiness  of  the  last  few  days 
slipped  from  him  like  a  garment,  and  as  a  wave  sweeps 
away  traces  in  the  sand,  so  memory  obliterated  all  that 
was  fair  in  his  future.  He  seemed  merely  able  to 
remember  that  he  had  been  lost  to  life  and  the  world  for 
a  year  past,  and  that  he  had  come  back  again  only  to 
find  a  difference.  Even  his  old  friend,  the  pal  of  his 
school  days,  the  chum  of  his  college  years,  stood  at 
death's  threshold. 

"Father  Gregory  will  see  you,"  said  a  voice  in  his 
ear.  "Those  who  are  with  him  say  it  can  make  very  lit- 
tle difference  now.  He  is  sinking  fast." 

With  a  heavy  heart  and  bent  head  Paul  walked  slowly 
up  the  familiar  stairs  and  into  the  mean  cell. 

The  narrow  bed  had  been  dragged  into  the  middle  of 
the  room,  and  the  window  thrust  open  wide  to  admit 
what  little  air  stirred  in  the  closely  built  neighbourhood. 
A  pair  of  candles  at  the  bed-head  shed  a  ghastly  light 
over  the  monk's  waxen  countenance.  Between  them 
was  a  crucifix  and  an  open  book.  At  the  foot  of  the  bed 
knelt  a  priest  praying,  and  a  lay  brother  leaned  with  his 
face  against  the  pall  in  the  corner  sobbing  monotonously. 
Father  Gregory  was  propped  up  with  many  pillows,  but 
even  with  their  aid  he  seemed  too  weak  to  support  his 
head,  which  hung  over  one  shoulder.  His  eyes  were 
closed,  but  his  pale  lips  were  murmuring  in  prayer  as  his 
thin,  worn  fingers  passed  the  beads  of  his  rosary  between 
them. 

"My  friend — Phil — what  is  this?"  cried  Paul  as  he 
entered  the  room,  and  forgetting  all  the  present  went 
back  to  the  past  boyhood's  days. 

Father  Gregory  opened  his  eyes  and  turned  them 
painfully  on  the  fresh  face. 


252         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Is  it  you,  Paul?"  he  [muttered  in  a  harsh,  low  voice 
that  already  rattled  in  his  throat. 

"Yes,  it  is  I.  I  came  to  see  you  to-night  to  tell  you 
something  of  my  past  year's  life  and  to  ask  your  prayers 
for  my  future." 

The  monk  looked  wistfully  from  his  friend  to  his  own 
wasted  form. 

"My  prayers,"  he  murmured,  lifting  one  hand  and 
dropping  it  again  weakly  on  the  sheet,  "my  prayers  shall 
be  for  you." 

He  made  a  motion  with  his  hand,  and  the  priest  and 
the  lay  brother  crept  outside  the  door,  which  they  left 
ajar  and  through  which  the  sound  of  their  prayers  and 
their  sobs  could  be  heard  at  intervals. 

Paul  knelt  by  the  bed,  and  his  old  friend  raised  one 
feeble  hand  and  laid  it  on  Paul's  head,  where  the  fresh 
hair  was  springing  up  so  fast  and  hiding  the  tonsure. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  he  said,  weakly: 

"So  you  left  the  monastery,  my  son.  You  failed  in 
your  vocation  there?" 

"Yes,  Father!  I  failed — and  lamentably.  I  recog- 
nised many  months  before  I  left  that  I  went  there  in  the 
wrong  spirit — that  I  had  no  real  wish  to  succeed." 

The  dying  man  sighed,  and  a  few  words  of  a  prayer 
parted  his  pale  lips. 

"So  you  had  no  call  to  a  higher  life,  my  poor  friend. 
That  has  been  a  great  grief  to  me — I  made  so  sure — you 
seemed  so  earnest.  But  tell  me  for  my  comfort  that 
you  are  still  a  professed  Catholic." 

"Now  and  always,  Father.     I  swear  it." 

A  faint  ray  of  joy  illumined  the  monk's  worn  features. 

"I  held  to  my  faith,"  went  on  Paul,  "even  when  my 
love  was  thrown  into  the  balance  against  it." 

"Your  love!     What  love?" 


"NO!"  253 

"My  love  for  the  woman  who  loves  me.  Don't  you 
remember  I  told  you  about — Rosamund  Keith?" 

A  slow  fire  burned  in  the  faded,  sunken  eyes. 

"And  it  was  for  her  sake  that  you  left  the  monas- 
tery?" 

Paul  bowed  his  head  yet  lower  beneath  the  light  touch 
of  his  wasted  hand. 

"You  read  my  heart,  Father!  But,  oh!  if  you  had 
seen  how  she  was  changed,  how  pale  and  pitiful  she 
looked,  you  would  not  blame  me.  It  was  her  love  that 
had  been  almost  killing  her.  I  think  I  only  came  back 
in  time." 

"And  now  that  you  are  back,  what  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

"We  are  going  to  be  married — almost  directly." 

The  dying  man  struggled  to  sit  upright  and  his  voice 
grew  strong  and  loud. 

"Do  you  not  know  you  cannot  marry  Miss  Keith?" 

Paul  started  to  his  feet,  white  with  astonishment  and 
wonder. 

"Not  marry  Rosamund!  In  heaven's  name,  what  do 
you  mean?  Surely  not  my  religion? — mixed  marriages 
take  place  every  day." 

"It  is  not  your  religion — as  you  feel  it.  It  is  the 
religion  of  the  Holy  Church  of  Rome. "  Father  Gregory 
raised  a  gaunt,  lean  hand.  "Have  you  forgotten  Kittie 
Clyde?" 

Paul  turned  grey  as  the  dying  man  before  him. 
"Kittie  Clyde!"  he  gasped.  "My  — " 

"Your  wife,  Paul  Carr!  Married  by  you  before  God 
ten  years  ago  when  we  were  both  lads  at  Oxford." 

Paul  thrust  out  his  arms  in  expostulation.  "But  the 
law  freed  me  a  few  months  later.  You  know  I  divorced 
her." 


254        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Again  the  priest  raised  his  hand.  It  was  like  the 
hand  of  a  cruel  Fate. 

"The  Catholic  Church  does  not  recognise  divorce. 
In  the  eyes  of  the  religion  you  swore  a  few  moments 
back  to  hold  to  and  profess,  you  are  already  a  married 
man." 

With  a  loud  cry  Paul  fell  on  his  knees  and  hid  his 
agonised  face  in  his  hands. 

Father  Gregory  sank  back  among  his  pillows,  with 
the  death  dews  starting  on  his  pinched  forehead. 

"My  God!  my  God!"  moaned  Paul,  as  a  strong  man 
moans  under  a  crushing  blow. 

The  monk's  sight  was  failing  fast;  for  him  the  light 
of  the  world  was  growing  very  dark,  and  the  everlasting 
radiance  of  heaven  had  not  yet  broken.  He  groped 
feebly  for  Paul,  and  when  he  found  what  he  sought,  laid 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"The  cup  is  bitter — I  know,  my  son — but  it  must  be 
drained." 

"I  will  not  drink  from  it — Father — I  cannot."  Paul 
lifted  his  distorted  face  from  his  clenched  hands.  "We 
have  borne  so  much — suffered  so  much — and  now,  when 
life  and  love  and  all  that  makes  this  world  fair  to  man 
and  woman  is  held  out  to  us,  you  would  dash  it  away 
from  our  longing  lips." 

"It  is  not  I— it  is  your  Church." 

"Then,"  cried  Paul,  wildly,  "we  will  go  away  together 
where  no  one  need  know  our  names  or  faiths.  By  the 
laws  of  this  country  we  can  be  married." 

"And  by  the  laws  of  your  Church  you  will  be  making 
the  woman  you  love  a  wanton  and  your  children 
bastards." 

"Not  that,  my  God!  not  that.  Better  to  leave  a 
Church  that  has  such  cruel  laws,"  groaned  Paul. 


"NO!"  255 

The  monk's  thin  fingers,  already  clammy  and  cold 
with  the  sweats  of  approaching  death,  caught  the  young 
man's  hands  in  an  iron  grasp  as  he  went  on  in  a  hoarse 
voice: 

"Are  you  going  to  let  your  body  damn  your  soul? 
Are  you  going  to  give  up  the  faith  which  you  embraced 
with  such  fervour  a  year  ago,  for  the  sake  of  a  woman's 
eyes  and  a  woman's  hair?  Are  you  going  to  turn  your 
back  on  your  salvation  and  the  world  to  come  for  the 
sake  of  a  few  short  years  of  what  men  call  love?  Paul! 
Paul !  when  we  were  boys  and  young  men  together,  your 
nature  was  always  easy  and  soft.  You  could  be  played 
upon  by  every  passing  emotion,  and  you  responded  to 
every  careless  hand.  Are  you  going  to  let  your  past  life 
influence  your  eternal  future?" 

And  Paul,  torn  by  the  old  weaknesses,  cried  aloud: 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know.  Tell  me — teach  me — 
show  me  what  I  am  to  do." 

"How  can  I — a  wreck  of  humanity,  already  prepared 
to  appear  before  my  God — how  can  I,  who  have  dropped 
so  early  in  the  fight,  hope  to  help  you?  In  a  few  short 
hours  I  shall  be  dead,  but  the  woman  you  love  and  your 
own  passions  will  be  alive.  What  I  may  say  to  you 
to-night,  she  can  undo  by  a  word  from  her  lips,  a  touch 
of  her  hand  to-morrow — for  you  are  weak,  you  are 
unstable,  you  do  not  know  whether  you  will  serve  God 
or  man." 

"You  speak  truly,"  said  Paul,  once  more  dropping 
his  head  upon  his  clasped  hands.  "You  lay  bare  before 
me  the  things  that  I  scarcely  dare  admit  to  myself.  I 
am  a  moral  coward ;  I  have  been  one  all  along.  I  came 
to  your  Church  because  I  was  a  coward ;  I  went  into  the 
monastery  because  I  was  a  coward ;  I  left  it,  and  now 
yearn  to  deny  my  God  because  I  am  a  coward." 


256        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Then  what  can  I  hope  to  do  for  you,"  sighed  Father 
Gregory,  "if  you  can  do  nothing  for  yourself?" 

"Protect  me  from  myself.  Make  me  swear  here  by 
your  death-bed  that  I  will  hold  to  my  Church  and  be  sub- 
ject to  her  laws." 

"You  took  the  vows  at  your  baptism.  How  have 
they  helped  you  up  to  now?"  murmured  the  Father. 
"The  resolution  that  requires  an  oath  to  back  it  is  as 
chaff  before  the  wind.  It  is  blown  hither  and  thither 
and  is  worthless.  No,  my  friend — my  son — the  time  is 
too  short  with  me  to  point  out  to  you  the  temptations 
and  the  dangers  that  lie  at  your  feet.  A  year  ago  I 
prayed  earnestly  for  your  happiness  in  this  world,  but  if 
it  is  only  to  be  won  by  the  committing  of  a  sin  against 
your  Church,  against  the  woman  you  love,  against  your 
unborn  children,  then  may  God  guard  you  from  it." 

"Then  you  can  do  nothing  for  me?"  said  Paul,  bro- 
kenly. 

"I  can  pray  for  you.  I  have  made  my  own  peace 
with  God — my  last  moments  shall  be  spent  in  interces- 
sion for  you." 

His  head  fell  back,  and  he  gasped  for  breath  through 
a  strained  mouth.  Paul  started  to  his  feet  and  called 
for  help,  and  the  priest  who  had  been  there  before 
entered  the  room,  and  after  giving  his  dying  comrade  a 
cordial,  knelt  once  more  at  the  foot  of  the  narrow  bed 
and  prayed  for  the  welfare  of  the  parting  soul. 

Father  Gregory  was  past  all  speech,  but  he  laid  his 
hands  once  more  upon  Paul's  head  and  rested  them 
there.  All  the  night  Paul  knelt  and  watched  the  battle 
between  the  human  and  the  Divine.  Life  struggled 
hard,  but  Death  fought  harder.  Yet  through  all  those 
awful  hours  Paul  heard  his  name  from  time  to  time  pass 


"NO!"  257 

from  his  friend's  lips.  At  dawn  the  battle  was  almost 
over  and  death  had  nearly  won  another  victory. 

"Oh!  God,  help  this  poor  man  to  keep  his  vows — 
help  him  to  hold  to  his  faith.  Give  him  strength  to  walk 
straight  in  the  path  in  which  his  feet  are  set.  Let  him 
not  turn  back  for  earthly  things — grant  that  he  be  not 
hindered  in  his  journey  to  Thy  throne  and  to  the  life 
everlasting." 

Heavier  and  heavier  grew  the  monk's  hands  on  Paul's 
bowed  head,  and  quieter  and  more  calm  the  twitching 
face. 

"Holy  Mother,  I  leave  this  erring  soul  to  thee — in 
the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost — Amen." 

With  his  right  hand  he  feebly  blessed  him,  and  then 
with  a  sigh  sank  into  the  arms  of  triumphant  Death. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

WHOM  GOD  HAS  JOINED 

ROSAMUND  was  singing  a  happy  song  as  she  ran  down 
the  long  corridor  to  her  aunt's  room.  She  had  been  sent 
for,  to  choose  some  hats  that  a  smart  milliner  had 
brought  for  inspection. 

White  and  rose,  amber  and  blue,  each  in  turn  crowned 
her  dusky  locks,  and  each  was  criticised  in  the  same 
words: 

"Do  you  think  Paul  will  like  this?" 

Laura,  all  white  muslin  and  azure  ribbons,  was 
lounging  in  a  low  chair,  and  found  cheap  amusement  in 
the  milliner's  adulation  and  Rosamund's  pretty  anxieties. 

The  last  airy  creation  of  tulle  and  flowers  had  been  sub- 
mitted to  the  ordeal,  when  a  maid,  knocking  at  the  door, 
said  that  a  messenger  wished  to  see  Miss  Keith  at  once. 

"I'll  come  directly,"  said  Rosamund,  patting  her 
ruffled  hair  into  order.  "Whom  is  he  from?" 

"From  Mr.  Carr,  miss." 

The  words  lent  additional  swiftness  to  her  light  steps. 
In  the  hall  stood  Paul  Carr's  valet.  He  looked  troubled 
and  strange  as  he  handed  a  small  sealed  packet  to  Rosa- 
mund. 

"Did  Mr.  Carr  send  any  message  with  this  parcel?" 
asked  the  girl. 

"No,  miss!  only  that  you  would  find  a  letter  inside." 

"Thank  you!  Will  you  tell  Mr.  Carr  that  we  expect 
him  to  dinner  to-night?" 

258 


WHOM  GOD  HAS   JOINED  259 

The  man's  lips  parted  as  though  he  were  about  to 
speak,  but  he  closed  them  again  abruptly,  and  as  Rosa- 
mund turned  away  he  left  the  house. 

Rosamund  with  the  packet  in  her  hand  and  a  slight 
smile  curving  her  lips  went  into  a  small  apartment  lit- 
tered with  books  and  work,  music  and  flowers.  Since 
the  girls  had  grown  up,  it  had  been  called  their  sitting- 
room.  It  was  redolent  of  femininity.  Some  one  had 
been  trimming  a  hat  there  that  morning,  and  scraps  of 
ribbon  and  lace  and  a  few  sprays  of  artificial  flowers 
were  littered  on  the  floor  in  a  broad  patch  of  sunlight. 
The  open  piano  was  covered  with  music — Rosamund's 
music — and  a  bunch  of  fading  roses.  Some  canaries  in 
the  window  were  twittering  and  fluttering  and  preening 
themselves  in  the  hot  afternoon  air. 

"Mv  DARLING  ROSAMUND: 

"Pity  me — weep  for  me — forgive  me  out  of  your 
gracious,  womanly  heart,  if  you  can,  when  you  read  the 
few  lines  I  have  the  courage  to  write  to  you. 

"Yes!  dear — at  last,  in  this  most  terrible  crisis  of  our 
lives,  I  have  found  the  courage  that  has  failed  me  always 
before  and  has  made  shipwreck  of  our  future.  With 
tears  of  blood  and  passion  I  am  forced  to  tell  you  that 
we — you  and  I — cannot  be  married. 

"I  only  learned  the  truth  last  night  after  I  left  you — 
learned  how  the  thoughtless,  foolish  act  of  a  headstrong 
boy  can  ruin  the  whole  happiness  of  a  man. 

"When  I  was  a  lad,  just  nineteen,  at  Oxford,  my 
fancy  was  caught  by  a  girl  in  the  town.  She  was  a 
tradesman's  daughter.  Her  name  was  Kitty  Clyde.  I 
married  her.  God  forgive  me  that  I  should  say  so — but 
my  sense  of  honour  was  too  great  to  believe  she  was  not 


260         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND   KEITH 

worthy  to  be  my  wife.  Six  months  later  I  learned  .1  was 
her  fool — her  dupe — and  I  divorced  her. 

"Rosamund — I  swear  before  God  that  the  whole  of 
this  wretched  business  had  so  faded  from  my  mind  that 
I  never  even  thought  I  was  keeping  a  secret  from  you 
in  not  telling  you  of  it. 

"Would  to  Heaven  that  the  memories  of  others  had 
been  as  short  as  mine.  But  last  night  one  who  had  been 
my  friend  at  Oxford — who  knew  the  story — faced  me 
with  it — and  forbade  my  marriage — with  you  or  any 
other  woman.  I  believe  his  soul  is  now  with  God,  for 
he  was  dying  last  night. 

"Dearest  heart,  I  swore  by  his  deathbed  that  I  would 
not  drag  you  from  your  purity  to  be,  in  the  eyes  of  my 
Church,  my  mistress.  I  repeated  that  oath  on  the  cross 
they  laid  at  dawn  above  his  dead  heart. 

"I  have  sinned — in  my  weakness — in  my  cowardice — 
and  the  most  poignant  pang  in  my  agony  is  that  you,  so 
stainless  and  so  brave,  must  bear  the  load  of  punishment 
with  me. 

"I  said  I  had  found  courage  to  write  this  to  you. 
That  is  only  another  weak  excuse.  I  write  this  because 
I  am  afraid  to  see  you.  I  dare  not  trust  myself  again 
within  the  magic  of  your  presence — the  passion  of  your 
grief. 

"Do  not  write  to  me.  Before  you  read  this  I  shall 
have  left  London,  and  England  a  few  hours  later.  From 
henceforth  I  shall  be  dead  to  the  world — dead  even  to 
you.  Forgive  me — pray  for  me  as  for  one  who  is  no  more. 

"PAUL." 

The  canaries  twittered  and  fussed  in  the  hot  sunshine, 
but  Rosamund  with  an  ashen  face  sat  and  trembled 
as  though  it  froze  outside.  God  was  good  to  her,  and 


WHOM  GOD  HAS   JOINED  261 

for  a  time  her  only  sensation  was  of  intense  cold,  and  it 
was  with  shaking  limbs  and  chattering  teeth  she  stumbled 
upstairs  to  her  room. 

Then,  amid  the  disorder  of  her  scattered  trousseau 
and  the  profusion  of  her  wedding  presents,  something 
snapped  in  her  brain,  and  she  fell,  a  huddled  mass,  to 
the  ground. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

LORD  ST.  IVES  MAKES  AN  OFFER 

"Is  Mrs.  Kerquham  at  home?" 

Lord  St.  Ives,  in  irreproachable  town  attire,  sat  in 
his  phaeton  while  his  smart  tiger  asked  the  question  of 
the  footman  at  "The  Hurst." 

"Mrs.  Kerquham  is  too  ill  to  see  any  one,  but  the 
young  ladies  are  out  on  the  lawn." 

Lord  St.  Ives  left  his  carriage  and  walked  into  the 
house.  It  was  refreshingly  cool  in  the  long  corridors, 
where  the  palm  trees  bent  their  huge  leaves  towards 
each  other  and  made  pale  green  arches.  It  was  a 
delightful  contrast  to  the  streets,  where  the  heat  was 
frightful.  The  pitch  in  the  wood  pavements  was  oozing 
and  bubbling  in  the  sun.  The  men  looked  either  apo- 
plectic or  faint,  and  the  women  all  washed  out  and 
dragged  to  death.  Half  way  down  the  long  corridor 
Lord  St.  Ives  stopped  the  footman  who  preceded  him. 

"Is  the  family  going  away?"  he  asked,  looking  about 
him,  and  noting  in  the  many  rooms  that  opened  on  either 
hand  the  unmistakable  signs  of  an  immediate  flitting. 

"Yes,  my  lord.  They  did  hope  to  start  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  and  we  all  begun  packing  up  last  Monday, 
but  my  mistress  was  taken  very  ill  yesterday  afternoon, 
and  there  was  three  doctors  here  last  night  and  a  con- 
sultation this  morning.  Two  nurses  came  in  just  before 
lunch,  and  they  don't  seem  to  know  as  when  she  will  be 
well  enough  to  be  moved. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Lord  St.  Ives. 
262 


LORD  ST.  IVES  MAKES  AN  OFFER  263 

He  was  a  polite  man,  and  very  seldom  forgot  his  man- 
ners, even  before  servants. 

If  within  the  house  all  was  disorder  and  trouble,  out 
in  the  garden  there  was  no  indication  that  the  usual  life 
at  "The  Hurst"  was  in  any  way  upset.  The  wide  lawn 
was  scattered  with  tennis  balls,  and  a  fluffy  lace  sun- 
shade had  been  dropped  by  one  of  the  many  girls  who 
formed  a  goodly  group  under  the  big  beech  trees.  The 
usual  umbrella  tent,  the  Japanese  sunshades,  the  ham- 
mock chairs  and  rockers  were  all  as  Lord  St.  Ives  had 
seen  them  before.  The  long,  low  table  was  spread  for 
tea  and  made  charming  by  a  big  bowl  of  roses  and  cut 
glass  dishes  piled  high  with  strawberries.  A  score  of 
young  men  and  girls  were  lounging  about  in  the  shade. 
Those  who  had  just  finished  a  set  were  unbecomingly 
hot  and  were  clamouring  for  refreshments.  The  rest  of 
the  party  appeared  aggravatingly  cool. 

"How  kind  of  you  to  come,"  said  Honor,  who,  as 
married  woman,  was  playing  chaperone  and  aping  her 
mother's  frigid  little  airs  to  perfection.  "But  you  are 
not  dressed  for  tennis,"  she  added,  looking  at  his 
immaculate  frock  coat,  silk  hat,  and  patent  boots. 

"It  is  rather  too  hot  to  play  this  weather.  Besides, 
I  did  not  know  you  had  anything  of  a  party  on.  I  only 
came  to  make  a  call." 

"Oh!  no  party,  I  assure  you,"  minced  Honor.  "Just 
a  few  young  people  in  for  the  girls." 

The  phrase  and  manner  were  so  ridiculously  like 
Mrs.  Kerquham's  that  every  one  laughed.  Honor  flushed 
with  annoyance,  and  Lord  St.  Ives,  under  cover  of  the 
foolish  jest,  slipped  round  to  the  very  back  of  the  group 
where  Rosamund  was  seated  in  a  wicker  chair  listening 
to  the  boyish  confidences  of  a  newly  caught  and  very 
amorous  swain  of  Laura's. 


264        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Rosamund  gave  the  coldest  nod  to  Lord  St.  Ives  as 
he  approached  her.  For  the  moment  she  was  half  afraid 
that  he  was  going  to  take  an  empty  chair  on  her  right 
hand,  but  he  contented  himself  by  standing  at  a  little 
distance  and  looking  down  at  her  as  she  sat  there  with 
quiet  hands  and  immobile  face,  listening  to  the  nonsens- 
ical talk  of  the  love-sick  youth. 

Now  and  then  she  murmured  some  idle  words  in  reply, 
but  Lord  St.  Ives,  watching  her  with  his  eager  eyes, 
noted  that  she  was  absolutely  inattentive  to  all  that  was 
going  on  around  her. 

He  was  a  man  who  heard  most  things  that  went  on, 
and  he  was  one  of  the  very  few  who  knew  that  Paul  Carr 
had  passed  two  or  three  weeks  in  London  a  month  ago. 
He  guessed,  though  he  had  not  been  told  so  for  a  fact, 
that  that  young  gentleman  had  found  his  way  to  "The 
Hurst"  during  that  time.  That  his  visits  there,  how- 
ever, had  not  resulted  in  any  settled  engagement  with 
Rosamund  Keith  he  felt  certain.  Even  if  there  had 
been  anything  of  the  kind  proposed,  he  felt  sure  from 
the  pallor  of  Rosamund's  face,  the  droop  of  her  proud 
head,  and  the  dark  rings  round  her  velvety,  dark  eyes 
that  the  wooing  had  had  no  happy  termination.  How- 
ever proud  a  girl  may  be,  and  however  still  she  may 
keep  her  tongue,  her  face  must  betray  her  to  those  who 
choose  to  study  it,  and  for  the  past  year  or  two  Lord  St. 
Ives  had  gazed  often  enough  at  her  to  have  learned  by 
heart  every  expression  that  reflected  her  thoughts. 

As  he  looked  down  at  her  now  with  the  glints  of  sun- 
shine playing  hide-and-seek  in  the  warm  shadows  of  her 
throat  and  ears,  he  guessed  by  her  attitude,  by  the  list- 
lessness  of  her  air,  from  the  very  slackness  of  her  open 
hands  as  they  lay  in  her  lap,  that  she  was  unhappy. 

"A  heart  is  easier  caught  on  the  rebound,"  he  thought 


LORD  ST.  IVES  MAKES  AN  OFFER  265 

to  himself.  "I  will  speak  to  her  presently.  Meanwhile, 
I  shall  try  her  and  see  if  there  is  any  sympathy  between 
us  at  all." 

He  stood  just  behind  her,  a  little  out  of  the  range  of 
her  carelessly  wandering  eyes,  then  fixed  his  own  gaze 
on  her  so  hard,  and  forced  such  a  look  of  fiery  passion  to 
his  eyes  that  presently  he  noted  a  hot  blush  creep  slowly 
above  the  collar  of  her  white  gown  and  mount  in  a  rosy 
tide  right  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"How  divinely  she  blushes.  It  is  the  most  fascinat- 
ing thing  in  the  world  to  see  a  woman  blush  naturally." 

And  feeling  the  satisfaction  that  fills  a  schoolboy 
when  he  has  tortured  a  helpless  animal  enough,  he 
strolled  over  to  the  tea  table,  and  as  he  helped  to  serve 
the  strawberries  and  cream,  whispered  little  scraps  of 
gossip  and  flattery  into  Laura's  greedy  ears. 

"And  what  is  the  matter  with  your  mother?"  he  asiced 
later  on,  when  the  shadows  began  to  stretch  themselves 
like  long,  grey  fingers  across  the  lawn  and  two  fresh  sets 
for  tennis  were  made  up. 

"I  really  don't  know,"  answered  Laura,  pettishly. 
"She  has  been  frightfully  tiresome  lately,  always  grum- 
bling about  her  health  and  making  quite  a  fuss  when  we 
want  her  to  take  us  anywhere." 

"Just  as  if  I  could  not  chaperone  the  girls,"  put  in 
Honor,  "now  that  I'm  married.  She  seems  to  think 
that  I  am  a  baby  still  and  not  to  be  trusted  with  them." 

Lord  St.  Ives  murmured  something  polite  about 
Honor's  youth  and  beauty  making  her  a  dangerous 
chaperone,  at  which  that  acid  young  woman  bridled  and 
looked  intensely  pleased — so  pleased,  in  fact,  that  when 
a  little  later  on  Lord  St.  Ives  addressed  a  request  to  her 
under  his  breath,  she  nodded  and  smiled  at  him,  and 
said  in  a  loud  aside: 


266        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Certainly,  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  You  leave  it 
to  me — I  will  arrange  it  beautifully." 

Ten  minutes  later,  whether  by  accident  or  by  Honor's 
design,  the  shade  of  the  beech  trees  was  deserted,  except 
for  Rosamund,  who  sat  with  her  chin  in  her  hands  star- 
ing at  nothing,  and  Lord  St.  Ives,  who  under  the  plea  of 
being  unsuitably  dressed  refused  to  play  either  tennis  or 
croquet,  or  to  go  to  the  paddock  to  see  the  new  calf. 

"Dear  me!"  he  cried,  suddenly  breaking  the  silence, 
"this  is  quite  a  ''solitude  a  deux.'  ' 

Rosamund  started. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said.  "I  am  afraid  I  am 
very  rude.  I  thought  everybody  had  gone." 

"Does  that  mean  that  I  am  nobody?"  asked  Lord  St. 
Ives,  pulling  his  chair  nearer  hers  and  tossing  his  cigar- 
ette into  the  shrubbery. 

"Of  course  not,"  replied  Rosamund.  "Everybody  is 
somebody,  you  know.  Perhaps  I  should  have  said  I 
thought  I  was  alone." 

"And  believing  you  were  alone  you  gave  free  rein  to 
your  thoughts." 

He  leaned  suddenly  forward,  resting  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  bringing  his  head  quite  close  to  hers.  "Whom 
were  you  thinking  about,  Miss  Keith?" 

He  had  expected  her  to  flush  and  prevaricate.  He 
knew  the  tricks  of  girls  so  well,  but  Rosamund  disap- 
pointed him  and  upset  his  calculations,  for  she  did 
neither. 

"I  was  thinking  of  poor  Aunt  Margot.   She  is  very  ill. " 

"So  I  hear,"  said  Lord  St.  Ives,  carelessly.  "Do 
you  know  what  is  the  matter  with  her?' 

"No!  I  don't  think  anybody  does,  only  I  fancy  she 
is  very  worried.  She  has  often  told  me  so  these  past  few 
months." 


LORD  ST.  IVES  MAKES  AN  OFFER  267 

"Worried?  Why,  whatever  has  Mrs.  Kerquham  got 
to  worry  about?  The  money  is  all  right  here,  and  Ker- 
quham is  a  good  husband.  He  is  not  the  kind  of  man 
to  give  a  woman  any  anxiety." 

"It  is  neither  of  those  things,"  said  Rosamund 
simply.  "I  think  she  is  troubled  a  great  deal  about 
Laura.  She  is  disappointed  in  Laura,  you  see.  She 
doesn't  marry." 

"Isn't  she  also  disappointed  in  some  one  else  who 
does  not  marry?"  murmured  Lord  St.  Ives,  in  a  very  low 
voice. 

Rosamund  saw  that  she  had  fallen  into  a  trap,  and 
drawing  herself  upright,  pushed  her  chair  back  a  little. 

"I  don't—" 

"You  are  not  going  to  tell  me  that  you  don't  know 
what  I  mean,  Miss  Keith?"  cried  Lord  St.  Ives,  deter- 
mined on  pushing  the  slight  advantage  he  had  gained. 
He  looked  hastily  around  him.  The  tennis-players  were 
busy  with  their  game;  the  croquet  party  was  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  lawn ;  Honor  would  be  careful  that 
the  visitors  to  the  calf  had  plenty  of  time  in  which  to 
observe  the  beauties  of  that  animal. 

"You  are  a  very  truthful  girl.  I  don't  think  I  have 
ever  heard  you  tell  even  a  white  lie.  Why  beat  about 
the  bush  now?" 

Again  he  drew  nearer  to  her.  "Miss  Keith — Rosa- 
mund— for  months  past  I  have  seen  that  you  are  not 
happy  here.  I  think  that  you  feel  that  you  are  wasting 
your  life  amid  these  idle,  foolish  people.  Your  cousin 
must  be  uncongenial  to  you,  and  your  aunt's  affection 
is  probably  measured  by  what  you  can  do  for  her.  You 
know  that  I'm  awfully  fond  of  you  and  that  I  have  been 
anxious  for  a  long  time  past  to  make  you  my  wife.  You 
shall  have  everything  that  the  heart  of  a  woman  can 


268        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

desire  and  as  much  liberty  as  you  like.  I  am  not  the 
sort  of  man  who  would  not  trust  the  woman  I  married." 

No  one  was  looking  at  them,  and  he  tried  to  take  her 
hand.  "Rosamund,  I  ask  you  to  marry  me.  Tell  me 
that  you  will  do  so,  and  I  will  go  at  once  to  your  uncle 
and  ask  his  consent.  He  is  scarcely  likely  to  make  any 
difficulty  about  the  matter." 

He  said  the  last  words  with  intention,  or  at  least  she 
thought  he  did,  for  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  faced  him 
with  scarlet  cheeks  and  flashing  eyes. 

"Lord  St.  Ives,  I  have  suffered  your  attentions  too 
long.  I  neither  want  your  love  nor  your  title  nor  all 
the  advantages  and  liberty  you  can  give  me.  I  would 
not  marry  you  if  you  were  the  last  man  in  the  world." 

"Not  even  to  please  your  people?" 

"Not  if  they  ordered  me  to  do  so.  When  I  marry, 
if  ever  I  do,  it  will  be  to  please  myself  and  myself 
alone." 

She  swept  past  him  and  ran  across  the  lawn,  disap- 
pearing into  the  house.  Lord  St.  Ives  pulled  at  his 
moustache  a  moment. 

"What  a  difficult  fish  she  is  to  play!  I  admire  her  for 
it.  She  has  got  more  pluck  and  more  spirit  than  all  the 
girls  in  town  put  together,  but  I  will  catch  her  if  I  can. 
I  ought  to  have  spoken  to  her  people  first.  She  is  one 
of  the  obedient,  dutiful  sort.  If  they  managed  things 
properly  she  would  give  way  in  the  long  run.  I  will  go 
and  see  Kerquham  now." 

He  knew  every  inch  of  the  place,  and  so  with  his  hat 
in  his  hand  and  a  freshly  lit  cigarette  between  his  teeth 
he  sauntered  round  the  garden  till  he  reached  the  studio 
window.  Honor,  in  the  paddock,  quite  tired  of  the  calf 
and  bored  by  the  silly  remarks  of  the  young  people  she 
had  with  her,  flattered  herself  that  all  was  well. 


LORD  ST.  IVES  MAKES  AN  OFFER  269 

"Thank  goodness!  it  is  settled,"  she  thought.  "Now 
Laura  will  have  some  one  to  look  after  her,  for  he  is  not 
the  man  to  stand  any  nonsense  when  he  is  her  cousin, 
and  I  shall  get  that  diamond  bangle  he  promised  me  if  I 
gave  him  a  chance  to  speak  to  Rosamund." 

Mr.  Kerquham  was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to 
a  picture  when  the  broad  figure  of  Lord  St.  Ives  flung  a 
shadow  across  his  work. 

"Good  evening,"  he  nodded,  still  painting. 

"Good  evening,  Kerquham,  good  evening.  Hot, 
isn't  it?  But  you  look  beautifully  cool." 

"Yes,  it  isn't  bad  in  here.  You  look  baked  in  those 
town  clothes  of  yours." 

Lord  St.  Ives  laughed  gaily. 

"Doesn't  a  man  put  on  the  garments  of  ceremony 
when  he  comes  on  an  important  errand?" 

"Tea  and  tennis  on  the  lawn  with  the  girls  isn't  so 
important,  is  it?"  queried  Kerquham. 

"I  have  not  called  to  see  the  young  ladies,"  said 
Lord  St.  Ives.  "I  wanted  to  speak  either  to  Mrs.  Ker- 
quham or  you." 

"My  wife  is  very  ill.  A  great  pity,  as  we  were  to 
have  left  this  in  a  day  or  two.  We  all  want  a  little 
north  country  air,  I  think.  Rosamund  looks  terribly 
fagged." 

"I  have  been  very  sorry  to  notice  that  Miss  Keith  has 
not  been  looking  well  of  late."  Then  after  a  pause  he 
went  on,  "It  is  about  your  niece,  Miss  Keith,  that  I 
wish  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Kerquham  stopped  painting  at  once  and  faced 
round  on  his  visitor. 

"It  would  be  idle  pretending,  Lord  St.  Ives,  that  I  do 
not  guess  the  purport  of  your  visit." 

"Then  that  helps  me  out,"  said  Lord  St.  Ives,  with 


270         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

the  engaging  frankness  he  could  assume  with  great  suc- 
cess when  he  chose.  "I  have  come  to-day  to  ask  your 
formal  consent  to — " 

He  paused  and  wondered  whether  it  was  wise  to  tell 
Rosamund's  uncle  that  he  had  already  been  refused  by 
her.  He  decided  to  veil  that  little  fact. 

"I  have  come  to  ask  you  if  you  will  intercede  with 
Miss  Keith  on  my  behalf.  I  wish  most  ardently  to  make 
her  my  wife,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  the  provision  I 
will  make  for  her  will  more  than  satisfy  your  most  affec- 
tionate desires." 

Alban  Kerquham  laughed  a  little  shortly. 

"We  have  no  desire  to  sell  our  niece,  Lord  St.  Ives; 
and  if  you  love  her  and  make  her  a  good  husband  and 
give  her  a  comfortable  home,  that  is  all  that  we  should 
ever  require.  Her  happiness  would  be  our  first  thought. " 

Alban  Kerquham  meant  what  he  said,  but  Lord  St. 
Ives,  who  had  for  a  long  time  seen  through  Mrs.  Kerqu- 
ham's  schemes,  knew  that  that  lady  would  consider  his 
proposal  from  quite  another  point  of  view. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  laid  such  stress  upon 
the  mere  worldly  advantages,"  he  said,  graciously; 
"but  I  know  some  people — especially  women — attach 
great  importance  to  that  kind  of  thing.  I  am  sorry  that 
I  could  not  myself  have  spoken  to  Mrs.  Kerquham, 
because  I  should  have  liked  to  have  made  my  intentions 
perfectly  clear  to  her." 

"You  may  trust  me  to  let  my  wife  know  what  you  have 
said." 

"And  Miss  Rosamund?"  queried  Lord  St.  Ives. 

"After  I  have  seen  my  wife,  either  one  or  both  of  us 
will  speak  to  her.  Rest  assured  that  we  shall  do  our  best 
to  urge  her  to  accept  an  offer  which  I  feel  sure  would  be 
for  her  own  welfare." 


LORD  ST.  IVES  MAKES  AN  OFFER  271 

"Oh,  by-the-bye, "  went  on  Mr.  Kerquham,  as  Lord 
St.  Ives,  after  a  ceremonious  leave-taking,  was  about  to 
quit  the  studio,  "has  Rosamund  any  idea — have  you 
spoken  to  her  yourself  on  this  subject?" 

St.  Ives  assumed  the  embarrassment  of  a  boy. 

"Well,  really,  Mr.  Kerquham,  such  words  as  have 
passed  between  us  are  perhaps  too  sacred  to  be  repeated 
or  even  commented  on.  I  am  sure  that  Miss  Keith  is 
quite  aware  of  my  admiration  for  her,  but  you  know  she 
is  cold  and  a  little  shy.  It  is  for  that  reason  that  I  think  it 
would  be  best  for  the  proposal  to  come  from  the  members 
of  her  family,  whom  she  trusts  and  who,  she  knows,  love 
her  and  would  only  advise  her  for  her  own  benefit." 

"I  will  speak  to  her  this  evening  most  probably, "  said 
Mr.  Kerquham,  turning  again  to  his  work  as  Lord  St. 
Ives  left  the  studio. 

"What  an  excellent  thing  it  would  be,"  thought  the 
good  man  as  he  painted  on.  "Give  her  a  good  husband, 
and,  please  God,  a  lot  of  healthy,  jolly  babies,  and  Rosa- 
mund will  forget  that  sad  business  with  Carr.  It  breaks 
my  heart  sometimes  to  look  at  that  poor  child  and  see 
how  bravely  she  bears  her  sufferings.  But  she  is  so 
sensible — and  I  feel  sure  that  such  a  settlement  would 
be  for  the  best.  When  my  time  comes,  as  come  it  must 
some  day,  she  will  be  quite  alone  in  the  world — or  worse 
than  that,  she  would  be  buried  alive  with  Kilbeggie  and 
the  old  aunts,  and  once  they  got  hold  of  her  they  would 
force  her  to  marry  that  muff,  Hamish  Lundy.  For  her 
own  sake  I  must  put  it  to  her  very  plainly  that  she  will 
be  very  foolish  to  throw  away  such  a  chance.  I  must 
tell  her  that  it  is  not  every  girl  who  has  nothing  but  her 
face  for  her  fortune  who  is  asked  in  marriage  by  one  of 
the  wealthiest  men  in  London,  and  of  irreproachable 
lineage  into  the  bargain." 


272        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

A  soft  tap  came  at  the  studio  door,  and  a  neatly- 
gowned  figure,  crowned  with  a  goffered  cap  and  endowed 
with  very  soft  hands,  murmured  that  Mrs.  Kerquham  had 
just  awakened  from  a  nice  sleep  and  felt  a  little  better,  and 
would  like  Mr.  Kerquham  to  come  upstairs  and  see  her. 

The  light  was  fading  fast,  but  without  a  second 
thought  Alban  Kerquham  laid  down  his  brushes  and 
palette  and  followed  the  nurse  up  to  his  wife's  room. 
He  could  tell  her  the  good  news  at  once,  he  thought. 
She  had  always  been  so  anxious  about  the  girls'  mar- 
riages. It  would  cheer  her  up  and  probably  help  her 
recover  if  she  knew  one  of  them  was  going  to  be  so 
splendidly  settled  in  life.  So  with  his  strong,  hearty 
voice  toned  down  to  the  silence  of  a  sick  chamber,  Alban 
Kerquham  told  his  wife  Margot  of  Lord  St.  Ives'  pro- 
posal. Her  face  was  very  sharp  and  bloodless  from  ill- 
health,  and  it  looked  grey  and  hard  as  stone  on  the  white 
pillows. 

"So  now,  my  dear,  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  see  Rosa- 
mund and  ask  her  what  she  thinks  of  the  really  splendid 
proposal,"  finished  up  Mr.  Kerquham. 

"You  will  not  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Kerquham,  with  a 
flash  of  her  old  decided  manner  coming  back  to  her. 
"You  will  merely  tell  her  that  Lord  St.  Ives  has  pro- 
posed to  us  for  her  hand  and  that  we  have  accepted 
him." 

Alban  Kerquham  knitted  his  brows. 

"Do  you  think  that  is  quite  the  way  to  take  Rosa- 
mund? You  must  remember  that  that  affair  with  Paul 
Carr  is  still  fresh  in  her  memory. ' ' 

"I  trust,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Kerquham,  "that  Rosa- 
mund will  not  forget  the  duty  and  obedience  she  owes  us 
and  about  which  she  has  prated  so  often.  Send  for  her 
at  once." 


LORD  ST.  IVES  MAKES  AN  OFFER  273 

The  nurse  was  rung  for  and  asked  to  fetch  Miss  Keith. 
Then  Mrs.  Kerquham,  to  prepare  herself  for  what 
she  thought  might  be  a  difficult  task,  but  out  of  which  she 
intended  to  come  triumphant,  had  some  fresh  pillows 
put  behind  her  back,  and  took  a  little  beef  tea  to  help 
her  through  the  coming  conversation. 

Rosamund,  still  in  her  white  frock  and  garden  hat, 
came  quickly  into  the  room.  Her  light  step  made  no 
sound  on  the  floor,  and  in  the  fading  light,  which  was 
only  broken  by  a  green  shaded  lamp,  she  looked,  with 
her  slender  form  and  pale  face,  like  a  spirit. 

"I  hope  you  are  better  this  evening,  dear  aunt.  You 
must  try  and  get  your  strength  back  again,  and  then  we 
can  all  go  up  to  Scotland.  You  know  that  air  always 
suits  you.  Don't  people  say  that  their  native  air  is  best 
for  everybody?" 

"I  thank  you  for  your  inquiries,  Rosamund,"  said 
Mrs.  Kerquham,  "and 'for  the  affectionate  solicitude  you 
display.  Whether  I  get  well -soon  and  am  able  to  go  to 
Scotland  depends  very  much  upon  you." 

"Upon  me?"  Rosamund  queried  with  astonished  eye's, 
and  half  inclined  to  think  that  her  aunt's  brain  was  wan- 
dering. "What  have  I  to  do  with  it?  I  am  not  allowed 
in  here  to  nurse  you.  I  would  come  at  once  if  they 
would  let  me." 

"It  is  not  lip  service  that  I  want — but  heart  service," 
muttered  Mrs.  Kerquham  very  sharply. 

Her  illness  was  of  a  nervous  character,  and  the  sus- 
pense and  anxiety  were  already  making  her  worse. 

"Speak  to  Rosamund,  Alban,  at  once." 

Mr.  Kerquham  cleared  his  throat.  The  memory  of 
Rosamund's  tears  and  love  for  Paul  were  present  with 
him  now,  and  in  his  heart  he  sorrowed  for  the  girl. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  began  gently,  "your  aunt  and  I 


274        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

have  this  evening  received  a  most  flattering  offer  of  mar- 
riage on  your  behalf.  Without  wishing  in  any  way  to 
force  your  inclination,  we  urge  you  to  give  the  matter 
your  most  careful  consideration,  and  not  to  dismiss 
lightly  or  for  a  mere  passing  whim  a  chance  which  will 
in  all  probability  never  come  to  you  again." 

"Rosamund,  if  you  refuse  this  offer,  I  will  never  for- 
give you,  and  I  will  never  speak  to  you  again,"  cried 
Mrs.  Kerquham  from  her  pillows. 

Rosamund  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  She  almost 
guessed  what  was  coming  as  her  uncle  again  prepared 
to  speak. 

"Lord  St.  Ives  has  spoken  tome  in  terms  of  the  high- 
est admiration  of  you  this  afternoon,  and  has  expressed 
the  most  earnest  desire — which  is  prompted  by  the  high- 
est affection — to  make  you  his  wife." 

An  uncontrollable  scorn  for  the  man,  who  having  but 
a  few  moments  before  been  refused  by  her  and  who  had 
then  resorted  to  the  mean  trick  of  bringing  pressure 
upon  her  to  change  her  mind,  filled  Rosamund's  heart. 
An  hour  ago  she  had  declared  she  would  not  marry  him 
if  he  were  the  only  man  in  the  world.  Now,  she  felt 
that  she  could  never  again  look  upon  his  face  or  touch 
his  hand,  even  as  a  distant  acquaintance. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham,  "what  have 
you  to  say?" 

"What  should  she  say?"  interposed  Mrs.  Kerquham. 
"There  is  but  one  answer  to  a  question  like  that,  and 
Rosamund  must  give  it  immediately." 

"Lord  St.  Ives  has  already  had  my  answer,"  replied 
the  girl,  very  quietly.  "I  refused  him  an  hour  ago  in 
the  garden." 

"Then  you  will  reconsider  your  decision,"  said  her 
aunt,  "and  to-morrow  when  he  calls  you  will  accept  him. " 


LORD  ST.  IVES  MAKES  AN  OFFER  275 

"I  am  sorry,  Aunt  Margot,  but  I  cannot  please  you  in 
this  matter." 

"If  you  are  sorry  you  can  easily  repent  and  accept 
his  lordship. " 

"My  dear  Rosamund,"  put  in  Alban  Kerquham, 
kindly,  "there  is  no  need  to  come  to  a  hasty  decision. 
Lord  St.  Ives  particularly  told  me  he  would  give  you 
time." 

"I  want  no  time,  thank  you,  uncle.  My  mind  is  quite 
made  up.  Nothing  can  ever  change  it." 

"And  pray  why  not?"  asked  Mrs.  Kerquham.  A 
pale  red  flush  was  rising  to  her  face  and  her  small  eyes 
sparkled  angrily. 

"I  do  not  love  him,"  replied  Rosamund,  firmly. 

Mrs.  Kerquham  laughed  shrilly.  She  was  fast  losing 
all  self-control,  and  began  to  beat  her  hands  upon  the 
bedclothes. 

"Love!  A  nice  maidenly  thing  to  talk  about.  Ah! 
if  you  had  been  brought  up  in  Scotland  by  Lady  Sophia 
and  the  old  earl,  there  would  have  been  none  of  this 
nonsense.  You  would  have  married  the  man  they  chose 
for  you  or  been  put  on  bread  and  water  till  you  came  to 
your  senses." 

Alban  Kerquham  caught  one  of  his  wife's  restless 
hands  in  his. 

"My  dear  child,  don't  you  see  that  what  we  are  urg- 
ing upon  you  is  for  your  own  good?  Lord  St.  Ives  is  of 
excellent  family  and  very  wealthy.  He  has  promised 
to  make  the  most  splendid  settlements  Think  for  one 
moment  what  an  anxiety  you  will  take  off  our  minds  as 
to  your  future." 

"And  pray  remember  how  you  can  help  Laura,"  urged 
Mrs.  Kerquham,  clinging  to  her  fetish  till  the  end. 

"Uncle  Alban,"  said  Rosamund,  "I  have  obeyed  you 


276        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

once  about  the  disposal  of  my  future.  Over  a  year  ago 
you  persuaded  me  to  become  a  coward,  and  to  give  up 
Paul  Carr  because  he  was  in  trouble.  That  act  of  mine 
has  spoiled  both  his  life  and  mine.  I  cannot — cannot  let 
you  do  it  again." 

"Isn't  an  earl  good  enough  for  you,  then?"  cried  Mrs. 
Kerquham  in  a  voice  that  trembled  with  passion.  "Isn't 
a  name  and  a  family  that  is  as  old  as  your  own  and  a  big 
rent  roll  and  huge  estates  sufficient  to  satisfy  you?" 

"I  want  none  of  these  things,  aunt,  but  I  did  want 
the  man  I  loved  and  to  whom  I  gave  my  heart.  The 
day  I  learned  I  could  not  marry  Paul,  I  vowed  I  would 
never  marry  any  one  else." 

"Rosamund,  you  will  kill  me  with  your  ingratitude!" 
moaned  Mrs.  Kerquham,  who  was  now  crimson  in  the 
face  and  shaking  violently  from  head  to  foot.  "Rosa- 
mund, if  I  die — remember  it  is  you  who  will  have  killed 
me.  Get  out  of  my  sight  and  never  come  into  it  again. 
I  shall  keep  my  oath — I  will  never  set  eyes  on  you  or 
speak  to  you  again  so  long  as  I  live." 

"My  dear!  Go  at  once,"  said  Alban  Kerquham. 
"Send  the  nurse  here  directly.  Your  aunt  is  worse." 

Sick  at  heart  and  broken  in  spirit,  Rosamund,  after 
summoning  the  nurses,  went  to  her  room.  Why  was 
life  so  hard  for  her?  Why  could  she  see  no  promise  of 
peace  or  rest? 

By-and-bye  she  heard  through  her  half-closed  door  one 
of  the  nurses  run  downstairs  and  call  to  the  footman  to 
drive  into  town  and  fetch  the  doctors.  Then  the  young 
people  who  had  been  wandering  in  the  twilight  came 
shuffling  into  the  hall  and  whispered  together  as  they  put 
on  their  coats  and  hats.  She  heard  her  two  cousins 
come  upstairs.  Laura  was  sobbing  noisily,  and  Honor 
was  trying  to  comfort  her.  The  doctors  came,  and  at 


LORD  ST.  IVES  MAKES  AN  OFFER  277 

nine  o'clock  dinner  was  served  to  two  of  them  down- 
stairs, while  the  third  remained  in  the  sick-room.  Once 
she  went  to  the  door  of  her  aunt's  bedroom,  but  from 
within  there  was  no  sound  save  rustling  and  whispering 
and  the  moaning  cry  of  Laura. 

Too  sad  and  wretched  to  remember  her  own  trouble, 
she  could  only  pace  up  and  down  the  long  corridor  wait- 
ing for  such  scraps  of  news  as  the  hurrying  nurses 
brought  out  from  time  to  time,  and  hoping  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her  uncle.  But  he  never  left  the  room  at  all. 
At  midnight  the  women  servants  went  up  to  bed.  Their 
staircase  ran  past  her  own  door,  and  she  could  hear 
them  chattering  in  low  tones  and  speculating  as  to  what 
kind  of  black  dresses  would  be  given  to  them.  At  one 
o'clock  two  of  the  doctors  drove  away.  "It  is  no  use 
waiting,"  she  heard  them  say  to  each  other  as  they 
walked  downstairs.  "Henderson  can  see  it  through  to 
the  end;  it  cannot  be  long  now." 

"How  dreadful!  Her  aunt  was  dying  without  a  word 
of  forgiveness  or  a  sign  of  reviving  remembrance  of  the 
duty  which  had  held  the  place  of  love  between  them  both 
all  these  years.  She  must  go  into  the  room,  if  only  to 
wait  behind  the  screen  and  to  be  with  them  all  at  the 
last.  It  made  her  feel  such  an  outcast;  it  cut  her  so 
adrift  from  them  all  to  stay  outside. 

Softly  she  slipped  into  the  room  and  stood  behind  the 
high  screen  which  stood  between  the  bed  and  the  door. 
All  was  silent,  and  from  the  sound  of  breathing  that 
came  from  the  bed  it  seemed  as  if  her  aunt  were  in  a 
drowsy  sleep.  But  Rosamund  did  not  realise  that  the 
strong  light,  shining  through  the  open  door  behind  her, 
threw  her  shadow  in  strong  relief  on  the  opposite  wall, 
where  Mrs.  Kerquham,  if  she  opened  her  eyes,  must 
see  it. 


278        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

The  figure  on  the  bed  stirred  a  little. 

"She  is  waking,"  said  a  nurse's  voice.  "We  must 
get  her  to  take  something  at  once." 

There  was  the  tinkle  of  a  teaspoon  and  the  rattle  of  a 
glass.  Then  suddenly  a  loud  cry  rose  from  the  bed. 

"She  is  in  the  room!  She  is  in  the  room!"  screamed 
Mrs.  Kerquham  in  a  frenzy  of  fury.  "That  wicked 
girl  has  dared  to  come  near  me  again.  I  know  why  she 
has  done  it.  She  has  come  to  see  me  die.  She  thinks 
she  has  got  her  own  way.  She  will  be  punished  at  the 
last  for  her  disobedience  and  her  stubbornness.  Take 
her  away!  Take  her  away!" 

Rosamund,  cowering  behind  the  screen,  was  invisible 
to  any  one  in  the  room,  and  they  thought  that  Mrs.  Ker- 
quham was  again  raving,  but  Honor,  who  fancied  she 
had  heard  a  slight  sound  from  the  door,  looked  round 
and  volunteered: 

"Yes,  mother,  you  are  right.     Rosamund  is  here." 

"I  knew  it!  I  knew  it!"  shrieked  the  dying  woman. 
"May  my  death  be  upon  her  head!" 

There  was  a  rush  of  the  nurses  and  a  loud  scream 
from  Laura. 

"Good  God!  She  is  dying,"  cried  Mr.  Kerquham. 

"All  is  over,"  said  the  doctor. 

And  Rosamund,  unheeded  and  sorrowful,  crept  like  a 
criminal  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

SPOILS 

THE  funeral  was  over,  and  "The  Hurst,"  which  for  a 
week  had  been  a  very  haven  of  stillness  and  quietude, 
now  rang  with  the  noise  of  hammers,  the  heavy  tread  of 
workmen,  the  passage  of  hurrying  footsteps,  and  the 
flicking  of  impetuous  housemaids'  skirts.  The  win- 
dows, which  had  been  shaded  for  so  long  from  the 
glaring  summer  sun,  had  already  been  stripped  of  their 
blinds  and  dainty  frilled  muslin  curtains  and  heavy  silken 
hangings,  while  the  verandah,  which  had  been  so  gay  with 
carpets  and  the  scarlet  cushions  of  luxurious  lounges, 
was  now  swept  and  bare  as  is  a  ball-room  the  day  after  a 
great  festivity.  Out  in  the  garden  men  in  shirt  sleeves 
were  moving  seats  and  tables  and  taking  down  the  bright 
umbrellas  and  snowy  tents  under  which  had  been  held  so 
many  bright  little  gatherings.  Men  with  shiny  coats 
and  doubtful  linen  were  to  be  met  in  odd  corners  of  the 
grounds  and  in  every  part  of  the  house.  They  had  little 
notebooks  in  their  hands  and  stumpy  bits  of  pencil  with 
which  they  scribbled  down  lists  of  furniture  and  their 
comments  thereon. 

Even  the  peace  of  the  studio  had  been  invaded.  The 
great  Persian  rugs  that  had  clothed  the  floor  with  their 
harmonious  colouring  were  rolled  aside  and  made  a  dingy 
heap  in  one  corner.  Canvases  and  palettes,  brushes 
and  paints,  had  been  securely  packed  in  huge  cases 
which,  piled  one  upon  the  other,  rose  like  a  wooden 

279 


280        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

mountain  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  The  pretty  cush- 
ions and  quaint  pieces  of  pottery,  the  stands  of  old  arms, 
and  the  silver  hanging  lamps  had  all  been  moved  from 
their  accustomed  places,  and  lay  about  dust-covered  and 
forlorn.  In  the  drawing-room  the  silken  furniture  was 
being  shrouded  in  brown  holland  covers  by  the  chatter- 
ing housemaids,  who  seemed  to  enjoy  the  excitement 
and  the  prospect  of  the  compensating  present  which  Mr. 
Kerquham  had  promised  them  for  such  sudden  dismissal 
from  his  service. 

For  "The  Hurst"  and  its  contents,  the  silver  and 
china,  the  furniture  and  hangings,  were  all  to  be  sold. 
People  who  talked  without  thinking  considered  that  it 
was  ultra-romantic  that  a  man  of  Alban  Kerquham's  age 
and  calm  disposition  should  take  his  wife's  death  suffi- 
ciently to  heart  to  vow  he  would  never  live  in  the  house 
again  or  use  the  things  which  she  had  chosen  and  bought 
with  him  in  the  early  days  of  their  prosperity.  His 
family  had  argued  with  him  on  the  point,  his  friends  had 
almost  laughed  in  his  face.  But  he  was  a  man  of  strong 
feelings,  and  under  his  calm  Scotch  exterior  there  was  a 
deeper  well  of  tenderness  than  the  world  had  any  idea 
of.  His  set  had  always  regarded  him  as  cheery  and 
easy-going,  a  man  who  was  content  to  earn  large  sums 
of  money  and  then  give  them  to  his  wife  to  spend  or  to 
save.  They  always  imagined  that  the  married  life  of 
the  Kerquhams  had  drifted  into  that  state  of  friendly 
indifference  which  characterises  the  majority  of  unions 
after  five-and-twenty  years. 

Alban  Kerquham,  however,  was  not  a  man  who  pro- 
tested overmuch.  He  had  made  no  great  scenes,  he  had 
borne  himself  with  a  subdued  dignity  at  the  funeral.  He 
had  set  about  the  settlement  of  his  affairs  without  any 
nervous  breakdown,  and  it  was  only  Rosamund  who 


SPOILS  281 

even  guessed  how  much  he  had  suffered  all  the  time. 
He  had  never  cared  particularly  for  society.  He  had 
been-  happier  working  in  his  studio  or  rattling  across 
country  behind  a  pack  of  hounds  than  lounging  about  in 
drawing-rooms  or  eating  large  dinners  in  uncongenial 
company  and  overheated  rooms.  His  world  had  been  in 
his  home,  which  he  had  worked  very  hard  to  make,  and 
the  pivot  of  that  home  had  been  Margot  Kerquham,  with 
her  hard  face  and  cold  eyes  and  her  high,  clear  voice. 

And  so  "The  Hurst"  was  to  go.  She  had  furnished 
it,  she  had  governed  it,  she  had  made  all  her  social 
successes  under  its  hospitable  roof,  and  she  had  died 
there — all  excellent  reasons  in  his  eyes  why  he  should 
leave  the  place  and  sever  all  connection  with  it.  Laura 
had  grumbled  loudly,  and  cried  that  it  was  a  cowardly 
thing  to  do  to  condemn  his  only  daughter  to  live  in  the 
country  or  to  wander  about  just  anyhow  among  such  peo- 
ple as  would  have  her  to  visit  them.  But  when  her  first 
annoyance  simmered  down  she  considered  matters  from 
another  point  of  view,  and  she  thought  perhaps  it  would 
be  for  the  best.  It  would  save  her  the  responsibility 
and  bother  of  housekeeping,  and  give  her  even  more  free- 
dom than  she  had  taken  for  herself  during  the  last  few 
years.  So  she  mapped  out  a  long  series  of  visits,  and 
interviewed  her  father  on  the  question  of  her  allowance 
with  a  business  capacity  and  thoroughness  worthy  of  her 
dead  mother. 

Rosamund  had  said  nothing.  But  she  had  felt  her 
aunt's  death  most  keenly,  and  even  the  sympathy  and 
kindness  with  which  her  uncle  had  tried  to  persuade  her 
that  Mrs.  Kerquham  had  been  unconscious  when  she  had 
uttered  those  last  fearful  words  could  not  rid  her  of  an 
uneasy  feeling  that  if  she  had  only  done  what  she  had 
been  expected  to  do,  and  unconditionally  consented  to 


282 

marry  Lord  St.  Ives,  Aunt  Margot  would  be  alive  now, 
and  this  great  grief  would  never  have  fallen  upon  her 
uncle. 

It  was  the  belief  that  the  whole  thing  had  been  her 
fault  that  had  added  a  poignancy  to  Rosamund's  natural 
sorrow,  and  that  had  made  her  since  the  sad  event  follow 
Mr.  Kerquham  about  with  mute  lips  and  great  miserable 
eyes,  even  as  a  dog  that  does  not  understand  follows 
his  master.  In  her  heart  she  vowed  to  devote  her  whole 
life  to  him  and  try  to  make  up  in  some  small  measure  for 
all  that  he  had  lost.  She  hated  herself  for  what  now 
seemed  the  basest  ingratitude,  and  even  her  broken 
engagement,  and  the  fact  that  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
whereabouts  of  Paul  Carr,  faded  for  the  time  into  noth- 
ingness before  her  new  determination  to  be  her  uncle's 
constant  companion  and  most  faithful  and  obedient 
niece  so  long  as  he  lived. 

In  her  own  room,  the  room  where  the  greater  part  of 
her  girlhood  had  been  spent,  where  she  had  wept  and 
prayed  for  Paul,  and  grieved  and  shuddered  over  the 
horror  of  her  aunt's  death,  she  was  preparing  to  enter 
upon  the  first  stage  of  her  life's  devotion  to  Alban  Ker- 
quham. To-morrow  the  whole  household  would  be 
broken  up,  and  strange  men  would  come  in  and  take  away 
the  things  that  she  had  seen  purchased  and  placed  with 
pride  and  care  by  the  dead  housewife. 

Surrounded  by  large  trunks  and  with  every  wardrobe 
wide  agape,  she  was  busy  with  the  sorry  task  of  going 
through  her  possessions  and  belongings,  each  one  of 
which  recalled  some  incident  of  the  past  or  of  the  nearer 
present.  Ball  gowns  and  fete  dresses,  riding  habits  and 
country  suits  all  came  out  from  the  scented  shelves, 
and  one  by  one  were  laid  aside  as  being  things  that  were 
done  with.  There  were  letters  to  go  through,  invita- 


SPOILS  283 

tions  and  little  dainty  cards  [with  glazed  surfaces  and 
fancy  pencils,  scribbled  over  with  the  names  of  men  she 
had  danced  with.  Each  one  was  indicative  of  a  triumph, 
and  each  one  reminded  her  of  some  pleasant,  happy  even- 
ing. But  they  all  went  with  the  coloured  frocks  and  the 
crushed  flowers  and  tumbled  ribbons.  Only  a  very  few 
she  sorted  out  from  the  general  confusion.  Paul  Carr 
had  written  in  them,  and  they  were  sacred.  She  tied 
them  up  with  his  letters;  the  few  notes  she  had  had  from 
him  from  time  to  time  and  those  longer,  disappointing 
missives  he  had  written  her  from  the  monastery  in  Nor- 
folk. They  made  but  a  small  packet,  and  she  smiled  a 
little  sadly  as  she  saw  what  a  little  room  they  took  in 
one  of  her  trunks. 

The  few  things — and  they  were  very  few — that  her 
aunt  had  given  her  she  kept,  wrapping  each  with  rev- 
erent care  in  silver  paper,  and  packing  it  in  orderly 
fashion.  Some  photographs  and  favourite  pictures,  a 
dozen  little  ornaments — most  of  them  childishly  simple 
and  desirable  only  by  reason  of  association — she  put 
aside,  purposing  to  give  them  as  souvernirs  to  the  ser- 
vants she  would  never  see  again.  Almost  everything 
else  might  go.  The  costly  dressing-bag  that  her  uncle 
had  given  her  on  her  last  birthday  she  packed  for  travel- 
ling, and  also  two  small  trunks.  She  and  Mr.  Kerquham 
meant  to  go  very  far  afield,  and  now  that  she  was  in  such 
deep  mourning  her  wants  were  very  few,  and  she  could 
always  purchase  what  she  needed  in  the  cities  they  would 
travel  through. 

When  she  had  finished  she  sat  down  and  looked 
around  her — and  then  for  the  first  time  it  struck  her  that 
the  wandering  life  that  lay  before  her  might  mean  a 
great  deal.  It  had  already  commenced  by  forcing  her 
to  cut  almost  every  link  that  had  bound  her  to  the  lux- 


284        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

urious  past.  For  what  use  was  there  in  keeping  things 
that  she  might  never  want  again?  Amid  all  her  grief 
Rosamund  still  retained  that  streak  of  practicality 
which  had  set  her  apart  all  her  life  from  her  cousins. 
Yet  she  felt  quite  a  personal  grief  in  parting  from  her 
dainty  fans  and  scented  gloves  and  silken  hose,  her  lace- 
trimmed  petticoats  and  smart  shoes  and  all  the  thousand 
and  one  prettinesses  that  go  to  make  up  the  toilet  of  a 
well-dressed  young  lady  of  the  present  day.  But  even 
that  sentiment  was  assuaged  after  a  few  moments  by  the 
thought  that,  if  in  years  to  come  her  uncle  elected  to 
turn  his  face  homeward  and  go  down  to  the  old  Manor 
House  in  Midshire,  and  perhaps  spend  the  evening  of 
his  days  with  his  rod  and  his  horses,  she  could  easily 
replace  such  things  as  she  might  require. 

So  with  a  smile  struggling  forth  on  her  sad  face,  she 
locked  the  two  small  trunks  that  were  to  travel  with  her, 
and  fastened  up  and  sealed  the  other  that  contained  her 
letters  and  such  things  as  she  meant  to  keep.  Then 
with  a  brave  heart  she  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  the  ser- 
vant to  take  everything  else  away.  It  was  a  hard  wrench 
at  the  last,  to  know  that  when  she  came  back  into  the 
room  everything  that  she  had  enjoyed  having  and  loved 
to  wear  would  be  gone.  Yet  she  had  never  been  a  girl 
to  flinch  or  to  spare  herself,  and  the  tears  in  her  eyes 
were  hushed  and  the  quiver  of  her  lips  brought  to  con- 
trol as  she  walked  down  the  long  corridor  to  where,  in 
the  distance,  she  could  hear  her  cousins  chattering  and 
wrangling. 

They  were  in  Mrs.  Kerquham's  room,  the  room  that 
since  the  night  of  her  death  Rosamund  had  hated  to 
enter.  Even  now,  though  the  windows  were  stripped 
bare,  the  bed  taken  away,  the  carpets  up,  and  the  whole 
apartment  littered  and  untidy,  Rosamund  could  see  in 


SPOILS  285 

a  flash  the  room  as  it  looked  that  night,  with  the  low 
lights  casting  shadows  on  the  wall,  and  the  drawn  cur- 
tains and  the  screen  behind  which  she  had  hidden,  and 
the  forms  that  bent  or  knelt  about  the  bed.  She  stood 
irresolute  at  the  door  for  a  moment,  and  was  about  to 
turn  away  when  Honor  caught  sight  of  her. 

"Oh!  here  you  are,  Rosamund.  What  have  you 
been  doing  all  this  morning?  Packing  up  your  own 
things,  I  suppose,  instead  of  coming  here  as  you  prom- 
ised. Now  I  ask  you — didn't  mother  always  say  I  should 
have  that  Brussels  flounce?  Laura  sticks  out  that  it 
ought  to  be  hers,  because  she  wore  it  on  her  presentation 
gown,  but  I  know  I  ought  to  have  it.  Laura  has  taken 
the  Venetian  point  and  would  like  to  put  me  off  with  the 
Honiton  set,  but  I  hate  Honiton  and  want  the  Brussels." 

Rosamund  leaned  against  the  door  post  and  looked  at 
her  two  cousins.  They  were  gowned  in  the  deepest  and 
the  most  fashionable  black,  but  their  grief  was  very  much 
on  the  outside,  for  their  cheeks  were  scarlet  and  their 
eyes  shining  over  the  division  of  the  spoil.  To  Rosa- 
mund their  small  white  hands  looked  almost  like  claws 
as  they  dragged  out  their  dead  mother's  clothes  from 
the  shelves  and  chests  and  quarrelled  and  haggled  over 
every  gown  and  cloak.  •  The  dressing-table  was  piled 
with  jewellery,  the  big  arm-chair  was  filled  with  fans  and 
feathers.  Lengths  of  silks  and  velvet  lay  in  shimmering 
heaps  on  the  floor.  Where  the  bed  had  been  a  huge 
cedar  box  stood  wide  open.  The  furs  with  which  it  had 
been  filled  were  all  tossed  and  disarranged,  and  exhaled  a 
faint  odour  of  the  wood  which  had  enclosed  them,  but  to 
Rosamund  the  room  seemed  filled  with  the  heavy  scent 
of  hot-house  flowers,  and  to  be  dim  and  dark  with  the 
light  of  a  few  candles. 

"Honor  is  a  perfect'pig!"  cried  Laura,  stamping  her 


286        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

foot.  "She  thinks  that  just  because  she  is  a  married 
woman  she  is  to  have  everything.  She  seems  to  forget 
the  trousseau  mother  gave  her.  I  never  had  a  trous- 
seau, so  I  am  entitled  to  take  the  equivalent  of  it  now. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Rosamund?" 

"Oh,  that  is  like  you,"  sneered  Honor,  "always  sel- 
fish. I  have  given  in  to  you  about  the  diamond  neck- 
lace. You  know  that  was  the  best  piece  of  jewellery 
mother  had,  and  you  have  got  it.  It  is  only  fair  that  I 
should  have  the  Brussels  lace." 

Laura  did  not  particularly  want  the  Brussels  lace. 
She  was  only  bent  on  driving  a  bargain  with  her  sister, 
and  even  as  she  argued  with  Honor,  her  bright  eyes 
were  travelling  round  and  round  the  room  in  search  of 
something  that  she  could  claim  as  a  set  off  against  the 
disputed  flounce.  When  she  had  made  her  choice  she 
gave  in  with  an  air  of  aggrieved  virtue. 

"Well,  if  you  must  have  it,  it  is  only  on  condition 
that  I  take  all  the  sables.  They  are  the  only  furs  of 
mother's  that  would  ever  suit  my  complexion.  Is  that 
a  bargain?" 

"What  a  Jew  you  are?"  cried  Honor.  "But  I  sup- 
pose you  must  have  them."  And  with  some  sharp  scis- 
sors she  ripped  the  coveted  lace  off  a  gown  and  tossed  it 
into  a  corner  among  a  heap  of  other  things.  "That's 
all  right,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  as  of  one  who  had 
fought  and  won  a  great  battle. 

"That's  my  heap  of  things,  Rosamund,  and  those  are 
Honor's,"  explained  Laura,  complacent  at  having  got 
the  furs  she  wanted,  and  pointing  to  two  great  piled 
masses  of  property  which  were  heaped  at  either  end  of 
the  room.  "We  neither  of  us  want  any  of  those  gowns 
over  there.  They  might  come  in  useful  to  you  at  some 
time  or  another,  if  you  like  to  take  them." 


SPOILS  287 

Rosamund  looked  with  quiet  scorn  from  one  cousin 
to  the  other. 

"I  am  sure  you  are  very  kind,  but  I  have  no  desire  to 
flaunt  through  the  world  in  any  of  my  dead  aunt's 
clothes." 

Honor  pulled  down  her  mouth  sourly,  and  Laura 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"What  a  horrid  way  you  have  of  putting  things,  Rosa- 
mund. I  suppose  you  mean  that  as  a  dig  for  us,  but 
really  I  do  not  see  why  we  should  not  have  our  own 
mother's  things." 

"Nor  do  I,"  answered  Rosamund.  "You  have  every 
right  to  them.  But  is  it  worth  while  to  quarrel  about 
them?" 

"I  am  sure  I  did  not  wish  to  quarrel,  but  Honor  is  so 
ridiculously  self-willed.  I  was  quite  prepared  to  be  most 
amiable  about  them,  only  of  course  she  wanted  every- 
thing that  she  knew  would  suit  me." 

"Well,  and  haven't  you  got  them?"  said  Honor  from 
her  knees  on  the  floor,  where  she  was  smoothing  out  and 
folding  up  a  quantity  of  richly  jewelled  embroidery. 
"You  have  got  your  own  way  about  it  all,  I  am  sure." 

The  girls  were  just  going  to  begin  hostilities  again 
when  a  heavy  footstep  was  heard  advancing  in  the  cor- 
ridor. 

Lady  Charlotte  Lundy,  her  arms  full  of  a  heterogeneous 
collection  of  articles,  loomed  tall  through  the  doorway. 

"What  on  earth  have  you  got  there?"  cried  Laura  and 
Honor  together. 

Lady  Charlotte  sank  heavily  into  an  empty  chair,  and 
dropping  the  armful  of  things  into  her  lap,  drew  the  hem 
of  her  skirt  round  them,  ostensibly  to  prevent  them  from 
slipping  to  the  floor,  but  really  in  order  that  her  nieces 
should  not  see  what  she  had  got. 


288        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Just  a  few  slight  remembrances  of  your  poor  dear 
mother.  As  I  came  in  this  morning  I  met  your  father 
and  told  him  there  were  one  or  two  little  things  I  should 
so  like  to  have,  and  that  really  just  now  I  was  not  in  a 
position  to  attend  the  sale  and  buy  them.  He  told  me  I 
could  take  what  I  liked,  and  so  I  have  just  been  in  the 
drawing-room — ' ' 

Honor  was  on  her  feet  in  a  moment.  All  the  instincts 
of  acquisitiveness  were  aroused  in  her,  and  every  drop  of 
Scotch  blood  in  her  veins  was  on  fire  to  do  battle  for 
what  she  considered  as  belonging  either  to  herself  or  her 
sister. 

"We  have  not  been  in  the  drawing-room  ourselves 
yet,  Aunt  Charlotte.  Father  could  never  possibly  have 
meant  that  anybody  should  choose  anything  of  mother's 
until  we  had  taken  what  we  wanted  ourselves." 

With  rude  hands  she  pulled  down  Lady  Charlotte's 
protecting  skirt  and  revealed  to  the  cruel  light  of  her 
own  and  Laura's  eyes  a  whole  lapful  of  little  curios  and 
rare  toys. 

"Well,  I  never!"  she  cried;  and  Laura,  with  her 
greedy  little  hands  up,  added,  "Oh,  but  you  cannot  have 
those!" 

Rosamund,  leaning  there  with  her  white  face  and 
quiet  eyes,  watched  the  fight  begin  all  over  again.  Every 
scrap  of  silver,  every  quaint  carved  ivory,  miniature 
jewelled  watches,  old  daggers,  and  the  thousand  and  one 
expensive  toys  that  nowadays  crowd  the  little  tables  of 
a  fashionable  lady's  drawing-room  were  severally  fought 
over.  Laura  wanted  the  enamelled  bonbonnteres,  and 
Honor,  without  a  word,  annexed  the  snuff-boxes.  A 
tiny  fan,  painted  on  chicken  skin  and  accredited  to 
Marie  Antoinette,  was  almost  torn  into  pieces  between 
the  three,  who  with  scarlet  cheeks  and  shrill  voices 


SPOILS  289 

squabbled  disgracefully  till  Rosamund's  very  heart  grew 
sick  within  her.  Suddenly  above  the  noise  her  keen  ear 
caught  a  slow,  heavy  footstep  coming  up  the  big  staircase 
and  advancing  towards  the  room  where  they  were.  She 
could  not  mistake  the  sound;  she  knew  it  was  her  uncle, 
and  she  would  not  have  him  see  for  the  world  this 
fight  and  wrangle  over  his  dead  wife's  possessions. 
Turning  swiftly,  she  ran  down  the  corridor  and  met 
him.  She  slipped  one  hand  through  his  arm  and  led  him 
to  a  window. 

"Where  were  you  going,  dear?" 

He  looked  a  little  strangely  at  her.  His  thoughts 
had  been  for  some  time  busy  with  the  memory  of  his  dead 
wife,  and  for  the  moment  he  could  not  realise  who  was 
speaking  to  him. 

"Oh,  is  it  you,  Rosamund,  my  child?"  he  said,  after  a 
minute  or  two,  looking  down  into  her  eager  face.  "I 
was  going  to  your  aunt's  room,  my  dear." 

"Not  just  now,  uncle,"  she  urged.  "People  are  in 
there — the  room  is  in  disorder — a  little  later  when  it  is 
tidied  and  straight." 

She  looked  fearfully  over  her  shoulder  as  she  spoke, 
afraid  every  minute  lest  the  sound  of  the  women's  quar- 
rel should  reach  his  ears. 

"Come  down  to  the  studio  again,  won't  you,  with  me? 
Is  everything  finished  there?  Are  you  certain  you  have 
packed  everything?  You  know,  uncle,  I  feel  now  that  I 
must  really  look  after  you.  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  if 
I  went  there  now  I  should  find  no  end  of  things  in  the 
oak  cabinet  and  the  Italian  chest." 

"Perhaps,  my  dear,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham. 

"Well,  then,  why  not  come  down  with  me  and  let  us 
have  a  final  search?  You  see  it  would  be  such  a  pity  if 
after  the  rest  of  the  things  have  gone  away  to  be  stored 


290        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

we  should  find  that  a  lot  had  been  left  behind.     Won't 
you  come?" 

He  looked  longingly  towards  the  far  end  of  the  cor- 
ridor, but  she  continued  talking,  and  insensibly  to  him- 
self drew  him  down  the  stairs  again. 

He  had  altered  very  strangely  since  his  wife's  death. 
A  few  people  who  had  seen  him  said  he  would  never  hold 
up  his  head  again,  for  he  looked  old  and  worn  beyond 
his  years.  Others,  however,  and  chief  among  them  his 
doctor,  had  said  that  all  he  wanted  was  change — change 
of  surroundings  and  hours  and  food. 

"Go  away  where  you  have  never  been  before,"  the 
cheery  physician  had  cried.  "See  things  that  you  have 
never  dreamed  of  and  people  whom  you  did  not  know 
to  exist.  You  will  be  back  again  in  a  year  and  will  give 
us  a  lot  of  wonderful  new  pictures." 

Three  minutes  later  the  same  cheery  physician,  look- 
ing a  little  less  pleased  with  himself  than  usual,  had  met 
Rosamund  in  the  hall. 

"Your  uncle  has  told  me,  my  dear  young  lady,  that 
you  propose  to  be  his  companion  during  the  next  few 
months.  I  advise  you  very  strongly  to  get  him  away  as 
soon  as  you  can.  He  has  been  a  wonderful  specimen  of 
a  fine,  healthy  man,  but  this  shock  has  touched  him  very 
nearly.  Take  him  away,  my  dear,  take  him  away  at 
once." 

Since  that  day  Rosamund's  intention  to  be  all  in  all 
to  her  uncle  had  been  strengthened,  and  she  now  felt 
towards  him  as  a  mother  feels  towards  her  helpless  baby. 

Now  she  led  him  to  the  studio,  and  for  an  hour  made 
a  gay  pretence  of  turning  out  all  sorts  of  forgotten  treas- 
ures. She  engaged  him  in  an  animated  discussion  as  to 
whether  he  should  keep  or  sell  a  box  full  of  old  costumes, 
and  as  to  whether  the  sketches  of  his  youth  should  be 


SPOfLS  291 

packed  among  his  other  drawings  or  incontinently 
destroyed  as  mere  scribbles.  In  her  own  endeavours  to 
keep  him  amused  and  to  prevent  him  from  carrying  out 
his  intention  of  going  to  his  wife's  room,  she  forgot 
much  of  her  own  trouble,  and  it  was  only  when  the 
luncheon  bell  rang  hollow  and  loud  through  the  bare 
house  that  she  again  thought  of  her  cousins. 

"Go  into  the  dining-room,  dear,"  she  said  to  her 
uncle.  "I  must  just  run  upstairs  and  wash  my  hands; 
just  look  how  dusty  they  are."  And  she  ran  upstairs 
lightly,  and  once  again  to  Mrs.  Kerquham's  room. 

The  chief  combatants  had  left  the  battle-field,  carry- 
ing with  them  the  spoils  of  war.  The  place  was  now  in 
possession  of  half  a  dozen  maid-servants,  who  were  pick- 
ing over  and  sorting  out  what  had  been  left  by  Laura 
and  Honor.  As  she  stole  away  Rosamund  thought  of  a 
picture  she  had  once  seen  which  depicted  a  crowd  of 
ghost-like,  ragged,  creeping  creatures  who  come  forth 
in  the  depth  of  night  and  strip  to  the  last  rag  the  dead 
bodies  of  those  who  have  fallen  on  a  battle-field. 

In  her  own  room  the  same  thing  had  been  going  on. 
Everything  had  been  swept  away.  As  she  passed  down 
to  lunch  she  heard  the  excited  maids  comparing  notes 
one  with  the  other  as  to  how  smart  they  would  look  on 
their  next  Sunday  out. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

A  CLIMBER'S  VILLAGE 

NEARLY  fourteen  months  had  passed  since  Mr.  Kerqu- 
ham  and  Rosamund  Keith  had  left  London  and  their 
friends  in  search  of  the  distraction  and  change  of  scene 
which  the  former  desired  so  much.  During  all  that  time 
they  had  been  wanderers  over  the  face  of  Europe,  had 
wintered  in  Italy,  spent  Easter  in  Rome,  and  had  passed 
the  early  summer  in  Paris  before  starting  on  a  pilgrim- 
age which  had  carried  them  all  through  the  picturesque 
old  towns  and  great  galleries  of  Spain  and  Germany.  In 
early  autumn  Mr.  Kerquham  had  the  sudden  revulsion 
of  fancy  which  comes  to  people  who  have  been  long 
among  the  cities  of  the  plain  and  the  bustle  and  turmoil 
of  the  great  centres  where  men  do  congregate.  He  had 
wakened  one  morning,  and  bade  Rosamund  pack  her 
trunks  and  make  ready  for  a  flight  into  the  mountains, 
and  she,  obedient  to  his  slightest  caprice,  had  done  as 
he  wished,  and  had  gone  with  him  up  and  down  the 
highways  and  byways  of  Switzerland. 

It  was  now  the  second  week  in  September,  the  time 
when,  as  a  rule,  the  stolid  German  and  the  travelling 
Englishman  begin  to  turn  their  steps  towards  their 
respective  fatherlands,  and  when  the  great  bare  moun- 
tain hotels  dismantle  their  scantily  furnished  bedrooms, 
close  the  wooden  shutters,  and  dismiss  their  armies  of 
waiting  men  and  women.  But  this  year  the  season  was 
marvellously  late.  Glorious  days  were  succeeded  by 

292 


A    CLIMBER'S    VILLAGE  293 

summerlike  nights,  during  which  only  the  frozen  dew 
fell  on  the  highest  peaks.  The  steamers  on  the  lakes 
were  still  filled  with  passengers,  and  every  gasthaus  and 
hotel  was  crowded  to  the  door. 

It  was  a  magnificent  afternoon  when  the  little  train 
which  runs  from  the  Visp  Valley  pulled  up  at  the  spruce 
terminus  station  of  Zermatt,  that  famous  hub  of  the 
mountaineers'  universe.  From  every  open  window 
bristled  alpenstocks  and  ice  axes,  and  half  a  dozen 
guides  who  lounged  over  the  railings  behind  which  the 
omnibuses  stood,  smiled  in  their  beards  at  the  pleasing 
sight  of  the  newly  arrived  stream  of  visitors. 

As  Rosamund  helped  her  uncle  from  the  carriage  she 
asked  him  if  he  would  drive  or  walk  up  to  the  hotel. 

A  year  ago  it  would  have  been  a  strange  question  to 
put  to  hale,  hearty  Alban  Kerquham,  but  a  subtle  yet 
sure  change  had  come  over  him  during  his  months  of 
wandering.  His  still  broad  shoulders  had  lost  their 
uprightness,  while  his  fine  chest  had  hollowed  somewhat. 
His  hair  was  now  almost  white,  and  his  once  ruddy  face 
paler  and  loose-skinned.  His  fine  eyes  still  shone  with 
kindliness  from  beneath  the  penthouse  of  his  heavy 
brows,  but  a  net-work  of  little  wrinkles  marred  their 
beauty.  He  walked  with  a  big  stick  by  his  niece's  side 
down  the  platform  as  he  answered: 

"I  think  we  will  take  the  omnibus,  dear.  It  isn't  far, 
I  know,  but  we  have  had  a  long  pull  in  the  train  from 
Geneva,  and  I  feel  a  little  tired." 

Rosamund  smiled  sadly  as  she  helped  him  into  the 
omnibus  and  with  grave  self-possession  picked  out  her 
luggage.  How  changed  things  were  from  the  time  she 
and  her  uncle  left  "The  Hurst"!  At  first  he  had  found 
amusement  and  distraction  from  his  grief  in  arranging 
and  conducting  all  their  journeys,  but  as  the  months 


294        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

went  by  she  noticed  that  each  move  from  city  to  city 
interested  him  less.  She  had  urged  upon  him  the  neces- 
sity of  employing  a  courier,  but  he  had  protested  with 
some  heat  that  he  was  not  yet  so  infirm  or  so  ignorant 
of  the  ways  of  travel  as  to  need  bear-leading,  like  a 
Yankee  or  an  old  woman.  Still,  after  a  time,  he  had  not 
demurred  when  she  herself  took  to  arranging  trains, 
securing  tickets  and  rooms,  and  he  even  permitted  her 
the  doubtful  privilege  of  investigating  the  bills  and  mak- 
ing all  the  payments. 

On  her  side  she  never  attempted  to  alter  any  decision 
he  might  come  to  or  to  thwart  any  wish  he  might  express 
with  regard  to  their  travels.  Rather  with  sweet  cheer- 
fulness she  made  his  desires  her  own,  and  it  was  with  a 
sympathetic  and  mutual  pleasure  that  they  found  them- 
selves in  the  great  mountain  valley  that  lies  at  the  foot 
of  the  mighty  Matterhorn. 

Rosamund  was,  in  fact,  delighted  to  have  come  here. 
The  magnificent  scenery  she  had  just  passed  through, 
the  rush  of  the  mountain  torrents,  the  sweet  pure  air 
blowing  down  from  the  everlasting  snows,  had  filled  her 
anew  with  that  joy  of  living  which  for  so  long  had  been 
in  abeyance  within  her.  The  lakes  had  been  beautiful, 
but  they  were  too  hot  and  enervating  for  one  of  her 
active  temperament.  So  many  of  the  people,  too,  in  the 
hotels  down  there  were  invalids,  who  were  content  to 
bask  all  day  in  the  hot  sun  and  to  sit  at  night  under  the 
too  luxuriant  trees  and  watch  the  bats  flitting  out  against 
the  evening  sky.  She  had  felt  suffocated  in  such  sur- 
roundings. 

As  the  lumbering  omnibus  rattled  over  the  narrow 
stone  road,  forcing  the  foot  passengers  on  to  such  apol- 
ogy for  a  footpath  as  there  was,  her  appreciative  eyes 
noted  with  delight  how  different  everything  was  up  here. 


A   CLIMBERS    VILLAGE  295 

Although  it  was  evening  and  the  sun  was  sinking  fast 
behind  the  mountains,  the  whole  of  the  little  village  was 
bustle  and  vivacity.  When  the  omnibus  pulled  up  before 
the  verandah  of  the  Mont  Cervin  Hotel,  Rosamund 
noticed  at  once  that  the  roadway,  which  had  been 
widened  at  that  point,  was  quite  taken  up  with  a  number 
of  mules  and  .pack  horses,  guides  and  travellers,  who  had 
all  come  down  from  the  Corner  Grat  and  the  Riffel  Alp. 
The  party  consisted  mainly  of  Americans,  who  were  talk- 
ing at  the  tops  of  their  voices  and  arguing  with  the  guides 
in  a  mingled  patois  of  bad  French  and  worse  English  on 
the  matter  of  payment. 

On  the  wide  steps  where  she  stood  to  watch  her  lug- 
gage sorted  from  the  rest,  a  party  of  three  young  men 
were  preparing  to  set  out  on  a  long  climb.  Filled  with 
the  novelty  of  the  situation,  and  knowing  that  her  uncle 
was  within,  speaking  about  the  rooms  and  asking  for 
his  letters,  she  leaned  against  the  low  wooden  balustrade 
and  watched  the  preparations  that  the  mountaineers  were 
making. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances,  she  thought,  they  might 
be  good-looking,  smart  young  Englishmen.  At  the  pres- 
ent moment  their  appearance  was  anything  but  prepos- 
sessing. Each  man  had  the  lower  part  of  his  legs  encased 
in  the  thickest  and  clumsiest  of  worsted  stockings. 
Huge  boots,  which  were  greased  and  decorated  with 
large,  square  nails,-  about  half  an  inch  in  height,  were 
bound  round  their  ankles  with  heavy  leathern  laces. 
Knickerbockers  and  a  short,  thick  jacket  of  rough  tweed 
covered  the  flannel  shirts  and  knitted  Spencers,  which, 
while  they  were  warm,  were  aesthetically  ugly.  Their 
sun-bronzed  throats  and  wrists  were  innocent  of  collars 
and  cuffs.  Soft  brown  felt  hats,  round  which  were  tied 
a  pair  of  blue  glass  spectacles,  were  pulled  well  down 


296        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

over  their  heads.  One  of  them,  a  lithe,  long  lad  of 
twenty,  had  pinned  several  bunches  of  edelweiss — that 
woolly  mountain  flower — in  front  of  his  hat.  There 
were  four  guides  for  the  party,  all  dressed  in  the  strong 
brown  clothes,  the  cloth  for  which  is  woven  in  the  vil- 
lage by  the  women  during  the  long,  dark,  cruel,  winter 
months.  With  much  laughing  and  talking  the  young 
men  were  packing  the  bags  which  each  one  was  to  carry 
on  his  back.  Flannel  shirts  and  woollen  stockings, 
pipes,  tobacco,  warm  slippers,  and  comforters  were  all 
lying  on  the  floor  of  the  verandah,  and  were  thrust  indis- 
criminately into  the  packs.  As  each  was  filled  its  mouth 
was  drawn  together  by  a  strong  rope  that  hissed  sharply 
through  the  steel  rings. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  one  of  the  young  men,  sud- 
denly turning  to  Rosamund,  and,  stepping  aside,  she 
found  that  she  had  been  standing  before  a  heap  of  well 
used  ice  axes  and  alpenstocks,  which  were  already  deeply 
scored  with  the  names  of  conquered  mountains.  Each 
man  selected  his  own,  while  the  guides  slung  over  their 
shoulders  long  coils  of  strong  rope  and  stout  leather 
flasks  holding  brandy.  A  little  crowd  assembled  to  wish 
the  climbers  good  luck  and  a  safe  return. 

"When  do  you  come  back?"  cried  a  pretty  girl  from 
a  window  which  overlooked  the  verandah. 

The  three  young  men  pulled  their  hats  from  their 
heads,  and  one  looking  up  at  her,  answered  back: 

"To-day  is  Monday;  with  luck  we  shall  be  back  on 
Friday  night." 

"So  long  as  that?"  pouted  the  young  lady.  "What 
shall  we  all  do  while  you  are  gone?" 

"Why,  look  forward  to  our  return,  of  course,  and 
speculate  as  to  all  the  wonderful  adventures  we  shall 
tell  you  about." 


A    CLIMBER'S    VILLAGE  297 

"You  will  have  no  adventures,"  interrupted  a  sun- 
burnt, elderly  man,  taking  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and 
looking  up  at  the  quiet  sky.  "It  will  be  the  easiest  thing 
in  the  world.  This  weather  is  marvellous." 

"Yes,"  chimed  in  another,  "and  the  glass  is  as  steady 
as  a  rock." 

"By  Jove!  I  wish  I  were  going  with  you,"  said  a 
rather  languishing  young  man  in  the  most  immaculate  of 
clothes,  who  was  leaning  against  the  doorpost  and  suck- 
ing a  cigarette. 

The  four  guides  laughed  among  themselves,  and  the 
eldest  of  the  party  cried: 

"Miiller  here  thinks  that  a  good  joke.  You  would 
be  done  up  before  we  got  to  the  SchVarz  Zee." 

But  Miiller,  the  guide,  was  a  business-like  man,  and 
having  had  his  laugh,  thought  it  time  to  attend  to  work. 

"We  must  start,  gentlemen,"  he  said  in  his  guttural 
Swiss-English. 

"Good-bye!  Good-bye!  Good  luck!  Hope  you  will 
have  a  good  time!"  and  amid  waving  handkerchiefs  and 
feminine  cries  of  felicitation  and  hopes  for  a  safe  return 
the  party  started  out,  turning  to  the  left  as  they  got  into 
the  road  and  making  for  the  head  of  the  valley. 

"They  have  left  a  bit  late,"  remarked  a  red-faced 
man.  "It  will  be  quite  dark  before  they  get  up  to  the 
Black  Lake." 

A  gong  rang  from  within  the  house,  and  the  little 
party  melted  away. 

"We  have  very  nice 'rooms,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Ker- 
quham  at  Rosamund's  elbow.  "I  have  ordered  dinner  in 
an  hour.  It  will  be  pleasanter  to  dine  quietly  by  our- 
selves after  the  table  d'hote.  Besides,  there  are  a  lot  of 
letters.  Will  you  come  upstairs?" 

Mr.    Kerquham   was   quite  right;  he  and   Rosamund 


298        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

had  charming  rooms  on  either  side  of  a  little  salon  on 
the  first  floor  and  overlooking  the  open  space  in  front  of 
the  hotel. 

"We  shall  see  all  that  goes  on  here,  uncle,  without 
any  trouble,"  said  Rosamund,  as  she  closed  the  window, 
and  taking  off  her  hat,  prepared  to  unpack  such  things 
as  they  would  immediately  require. 

While  she  busied  herself  unpacking,  Mr.  Kerquham 
sat  in  a  big  chair  and  opened  a  large  batch  of  letters 
which  had  been  awaiting  him  for  some  days. 

She  was  in  her  own  room  unfastening  her  dressing- 
bag  when  she  heard  his  voice  calling  her. 

"Rosie,  dear,  here  is  a  piece  of  news!  I  have  a 
letter  from  Laura." 

She  ran  to  him  and  stood  with  her  head  a  little  on  one 
side,  and  the  smile  with  which  she  always  listened  to 
his  words  curving  the  corners  of  her  sweet,  red  lips. 

"Now,  uncle,  I  am  going  to  try  and  guess  what  is  in 
that  letter.  Your  face  is  going  to  tell  me.  It  is  news 
that  has  astonished  you.  I  can  tell  that.  And  you  are 
a  little  pleased — a  little  disappointed,  too.  Now,  there 
is  only  one  thing  that  could  make  you  look  like  that. 
Laura  is  going  to  be  married." 

Mr.  Kerquham  laughed  and  laid  the  letter  on  the 
table. 

"Rosamund,  you  are  a  witch.  You  have  guessed 
right  at  once." 

"Yes,  but  I  have  not  finished  yet.  I  have  only  stated 
a  bald  fact.  I  am  going  into  details  now.  Laura  is 
going  to  be  married  to  the  very  last  man  in  the  world 
whom  you  would  have  expected  her  to  look  at  or  to  look 
at  her." 

"Right  again,  Rosamund.  Now,  are  you  clever 
enough  to  tell  me  the  name?" 


A    CLIMBER'S    VILLAGE  299 

Rosamund  put  her  lips  together  and  knitted  her 
brows  in  thought. 

"I  must  first  think  of  the  sort  Laura  would  not  have 
married,  uncle — a  kind  of  weeding-out  process,  you  know. 
He  cannot  be  a  poor  man.  He  cannot  be  some  one  whom 
she  can't  turn  round  her  little  finger.  He  cannot  be 
very  handsome,  because  Laura  would  never  stand  divided 
admiration,  she  would  want  it  all  for  herself.  He  is  not 
a  country  man,  because  she  adores  London,  and  by  the 
same  inference  he  is  not  a  soldier  or  a  sailor." 

She  clapped  her  hands  together.  "Uncle,  I  believe 
I've  guessed.  For  your  own  face  has  told  me  that  he 
is  the  most  unlikely  man  in  the  world,  and  yet  he  is  a 
man  who  fulfils  all  the  requirements  that  I  know  Laura 
must  have.  It  is  Hamish  Lundy,  isn't  it?" 

Mr.  Kerquham  nodded  his  head,  and  Rosamund,  see- 
ing she  had  amused  him,  exerted  herself  still  more,  and 
proceeded  to  bewail  mockingly  the  faithlessness  of  one 
who  had  once  worshipped  at  her  own  shrine.  Then  she 
finished  by  throwing  up  her  hands  and  wishing  them  both 
a  happy  life. 

Mr.  Kerquham,  for  answer  to  that,  pushed  another 
letter  towards  her. 

"That  is  from  your  great-aunt  Charlotte,  my  dear. 
She  seems  perfectly  content;  says  Laura  has  steadied 
down,  and  that  all  her  previous  faults  have  been  merely 
the  error  of  youth  and  superabundant  spirits." 

Then  he  sighed.  "I  often  wonder  where  Laura  got 
her  disposition  from,  she  was  never  a  true  Kerquham; 
she  had  a  strain  in  her  that  was  alien  to  all  the  rest 
of  us. " 

Later  they  dined  almost  alone  at  a  small  table  in  the 
large  salle.  A  score  of  waiters,  who  chatted  among 
themselves  in  bastard  German,  French,  or  Italian,  were 


300        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

busy  cleaning  the  three  long  tables  where  the  multitude 
of  visitors  had  just  been  fed.  Most  of  the  lights  were 
out,  but  one  was  left  for  their  use,  and  before  they  had 
finished  the  soup  another  was  switched  on  over  the  next 
table  to  their  own.  They  spoke  but  little  as  they  ate, 
and  so  Rosamund  had  ample  leisure  to  study  the  solitary 
man  who  a  few  minutes  later  swung  with  a  heavy  stride 
down  the  long  room  and  seated  himself  close  by  them. 

He  was  a  very  big  man,  and  would  have  been  abnor- 
mally tall  but  that  his  great  breadth  was  in  proportion 
to  his  height.  He  wore  the  roughest  of  clothes,  and  his 
heavy  boots  were  "clogged  with  clay  and  mud.  His  face 
and  neck  and  hands  were  burnt  almost  as  black  as  the 
short,  thick  hair  which  grew  in  little  tight  curls  all  over 
his  head.  To  Rosamund,  who  had  but  just  arrived 
among  the  great  mountains,  and  who  had  had  her  first 
glimpse  of  life  in  what  is  called  a  "climber's  village," 
this  new-comer,  with  his  giant  frame  and  his  look  of 
indomitable  courage  and  strength,  seemed  the  very 
epitome  of  the  life  about  her.  When  he  raised  his  eyes 
from  his  plate  and  looked  about  the  room,  she  saw  that 
they  were  of  a  light  blue,  yet  misty  and  deep  in  expres- 
sion as  are  the  eyes  of  people  who  live  much  alone  and 
spend  their  days  in  communion  with  nature  rather  than 
with  their  fellow-men. 

He  finished  his  meal  before  they  did,  and  Rosamund 
watched  his  broad  back  disappearing  down  the  vista  of 
the  now  empty  dining-room.  When  a  little  later  she  and 
her  uncle  moved  into  the  drawing-room  of  the  hotel  the 
big  man  was  there.  He  sat  in  a  far  corner,  buried  in  a 
huge  chair,  with  a  paper  held  before  his  face,  and  very 
little  else  but  his  rough  boots  and  coarse  stockings  and 
his  great,  strong,  brown  hands  to  be  seen.  But  the  girl 
noticed  that  all  eyes  in  the  room  were  perpetually  being 


A    CLIMBER'S    VILLAGE  301 

directed  towards  him,  and  when,  by-and-bye,  he  picked 
his  way  out  of  the  room,  passing  with  a  certain  clumsy 
politeness  among  the  crowds  of  women,  her  keen  ears 
caught  on  all  sides  the  echoes  of  the  chorus  of  wonder 
and  praise  and  admiration  that  rose  up  the  moment  he 
had  gone. 

"The  most  wonderful  thing  ever  done." 
"It  was  he  who  saved  the  guides." 
"They  say  up  here  that  he  bears  a  charmed  life." 
"The  men  positively  worship  him  in  these  parts. " 
When    later   on    Rosamund    went    upstairs    with    her 
uncle,  who  had  been  sitting  during  the  evening  over  by 
the  wood  fire  and  chatting  with  the  circle  grouped  around 
it,  he  said  to  her: 

"We  have  quite  a  celebrity  in  the  hotel." 
"Have  we,  dear?  I  thought  the  only  thing  that  peo- 
ple here  talk  about  or  appreciate  is  climbing  up  a  moun- 
tain and  scrambling  down  again.  I  have  been  amusing 
myself  listening  to  the  chat  this  evening,  and  I  feel  as  if 
I  have  been  up  every  mountain  for  miles  round.  Every 
one  has  either  been  up  or  is  going  up.  Such  common- 
place subjects  as  homes,  relations,  books,  and  newspapers 
seem  to  be  absolutely  tabooed  here.  One  little  lady 
to-night — the  one  with  the  fair  hair  who  was  writing 
letters  at  the  table  where  I  was  sitting — began  to  tell 
another  of  the  dreadful  attack  of  whooping-cough  her 
baby  had  had  last  May.  The  other  lady  simply  said: 
'Oh!  how  very  sad  it  must  have  been  for  you,  but  I 
wonder  what  kind  of  mule  I  shall  get  to-morrow  to  take 
me  up  to  the  Riffelberg. '  And  then,  for  fear  the  little 
woman  should  say  any  more  about  her  baby,  the  other 
one  proceeded  to  relate  her  exploits  last  week  on  Mont 
Rosa,  and  how  she  had  twice  been  up  as  far  as  the 
Grands  Mulcts  on  Mont  Blanc,  but  had  been  obliged  each 


302         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

time  to  turn  back  by  bad  weather.  I  should  have  thought 
that  no  ordinary  celebrity — not  even  a  great  painter  like 
yourself,  dear — would  be  even  allowed  to  live  up  here." 

"Of  course  not — of  course  not,"  cried  Mr.  Kerquham, 
rather  shortly,  for  his  mood  in  these  latter  days  was 
changeable.  "We  have  left  all  that  kind  of  nonsense 
and  chatter  about  fashions  and  domestic  life  down  below. 
We  are  up  in  the  mountains  now,  my  dear — the  glorious 
mountains — the  finest  works  of  God — the  most  fascinat- 
ing, beautiful  things  in  the  whole  world — and  it  is  only 
natural  that  people  should  talk  of  them  and  nothing  else. 
Wait  till  you  see  the  Matterhorn  to-morrow  with  the 
morning  sun  shining  on  his  great  white  sides.  You  will 
say  that  it  is  a  grander  sight  than  all  the  pictures  we 
have  seen  in  all  the  galleries  of  Europe.  Celebrities  as 
they  are  known  to  us,  with  their  little  petty  successes, 
count  for  nothing  in  the  face  of  such  surroundings  as 
there  are  here.  The  best  man  in  these  parts  is  the  man 
who  can  do  the  biggest  climb,  who  can  conquer  the  peak 
-that  has  been  virgin  up  to  now,  or  climb  the  'chimney' 
that  has  defeated  the  bravest  and  the  best.  That  is 
the  sort  of  celebrity  that  you  find  here,  and  that  is  the 
sort  of  celebrity  who  is  stopping  here  now." 

"Really,  uncle?"  said  Rosamund.  "And  who  may  he 
be?  I  have  seen  all  sorts  of  famous  men  in  my  time.  I 
should  like  to  see  a  great  mountaineer." 

"He  is  a  very  tall  man,  they  tell  me — a  fine  fellow — 
an  Englishman,  of  course,  with  the  longest  legs  and 
the  broadest  shoulders  that  were  ever  made.  He  has 
travelled  all  over  the  world  and  done  some  splendid  work 
in  the  Andes  and  the  Himalayas.  They  say  that  he 
climbs  these  mountains  here  as  if  they  were  mere  child's 
play,  and  the  best  guides  of  the  place  look  upon  him  as 
a  positive  marvel. ' ' 


A    CLIMBER'S    VILLAGE  303 

"A  big  man,  they  say.  I  wonder — was  he  in  the 
drawing-room  this  evening?" 

"They  said  so,"  answered  Mr.  Kerquham,  "but  I  did 
not  notice.  However,  a  very  nice  fellow — a  General 
Creighton,  who  is  here  with  his  wife,  a  lady  you  would 
like  to  know,  Rosamund — has  promised  to  introduce  Mr. 
Fraser  to  me  to-morrow." 

"Is  that  the  celebrity?" 

"Yes,  Fraser,  Hugh  Fraser.  They  will  have  it  that 
he  is  English,  but  his  name  smacks  of  Scotland,  and  I 
mean  to  ask  him  if  he  is  any  connection  of  the  Frasers 
of  Lochie  Hall.  If  so,  he  will  be  a  distant  connection  of 
my  poor,  dear  wife." 

For  the  next  hour  Rosamund  sat  and  listened  to  her 
uncle's  speculations  about  Mr.  Fraser  and  his  probable 
connection  with  her  dead  Aunt  Margot.  She  always 
rather  dreaded  Mrs.  Kerquham's  name  in  the  con- 
versation, for  her  uncle  became  depressed  in  spirits 
and  gloomy  in  thoughts  when  the  remembrance  of  her 
death  came  back  to  him.  By  the  time  she  was  free  to  go 
to  bed  Rosamund  could  almost  have  found  it  in  her  gentle 
heart  to  hate  this  Mr.  Fraser  and  all  his  exploits,  for 
that  he  had  innocently  set  her  uncle  on  to  a  strain  of 
thought  which  was  bad  for  him  and  painful  to  her. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

HIGH   PLACES  AND  PERSONS 

WHATEVER  sense  of  vexation  Rosamund  might  have  felt 
over  night  was  dispelled  in  the  morning  when  she  was 
awakened  by  the  rumbling  of  the  guides'  rough  voices 
and  the  trampling  of  mules'  feet  on  the  gravel  under  her 
window.  Springing  from  her  bed,  she  ran  across  the 
polished  wood  floor,  and  peeping  between  the  lattices 
of  her  blind  uttered  a  little  cry  of  delight.  For  fear  that 
she  should  be  detained  by  too  long  looking,  she  retreated 
from  the  window  and  began  to  dress  as  fast  as  she 
could.  When  her  simple  toilet  was  finished  she  crept 
into  her  uncle's  room,  to  find  him  still  sleeping,  so  she 
ran  downstairs  with  a  light  heart  and  eyes  that  shone 
with  eagerness  to  see  all  she  could. 

The  big  square  hall,  with  its  grey  stone  floor,  was 
full  of  a  lively  crowd.  Some  pretty  American  girls,  all 
affectation,  twang,  and  drawl,  were  making  much  of  a 
couple  of  St.  Bernard  dogs  which  lolled  their  tongues 
and  swung  their  tails  with  a  lordly  air  of  indifference  to 
the  open  admiration  they  excited.  Young  men  with  a 
great  deal  of  swagger  and  portentously  thick  boots  were 
talking  loudly  about  their  day's  expedition,  and  betting 
one  another  bottles  of  champagne  as  to  the  time  in 
which  they  would  do  such  and  such  a  walk.  Trunks 
were  being  lashed  together  and  swung  across  the  backs 
of  the  patient  mules,  who  knew  perfectly  well  that  they 
would  have  to  toil  up  the  valley  to  the  Riffelberg  Hotel, 

304 


HIGH  PLACES  AND  PERSONS       305 

which  stood  like  a  little  toy  house,  clear  and  white 
against  the  sky-line.  Ladies  in  ostentatiously  short 
skirts  and  ludicrously  heavy  boots  were  laughing  audibly 
at  others  of  their  sex  who  were  proposing  to  walk  in 
French  heels  and  lace-trimmed  petticoats. 

Making  her  way  through  the  merry  throng,  Rosamund 
went  out  on  to  the  verandah,  down  the  few  steps,  and 
across  the  small  open  space  to  the  main  street.  Oppo- 
site the  hotel  and  on  either  side,  in  the  morning  sun,  the 
shopkeepers  had  set  out  their  wares  on  trestles  and 
boards.  Photographs  and  pressed  mountain  flowers, 
alpenstocks,  cow  bells,  coarse  stockings  and  rough  boots, 
all  basked  in  the  sunshine  together,  for  it  was  yet  too 
early  to  fix  up  the  gay  shreds  of  cloth  and  cotton  which 
during  the  mid-day  sheltered  the  shops  and  the  sellers 
from  the  blinding  glare.  To  the  right,  down  the  street, 
a  small  glass  window  was  filled  with  carved  coral  and 
tortoise-shell.  The  wares  were  Italian,  and  a  short, 
beady-eyed,  crop-headed  Venetian  stood  in  the  doorway 
and  grinned  cheerfully  as  a  string  of  mules  laden  with 
trunks  passed  slowly  up  the  narrow  street.  Some  new- 
comers of  the  night  before  sauntered  out  of  the  hotel 
and  proceeded  to  choose  alpenstocks  and  ice  axes.  The 
men  tried  on  some  hats,  and  a  pretty  girl  masked  her 
bright  eyes  behind  a  pair  of  blue  spectacles.  The  whole 
party  laughed,  and  Rosamund,  out  of  sheer  lightness  of 
heart,  laughed  with  them. 

From  the  salle  came  the  clatter  of  coffee  cups,  for 
although  it  was  still  very  early,  the  day's  excursions  were 
already  starting.  Anxious  fathers  of  families,  desirous 
of  toiling  with  their  stout  wives  and  bouncing  daughters 
up  to  the  wondrous  Corner  Grat,  from  the  edge  of  which 
great  glacier  they  could  see  all  the  Alpine  giants  without 
the  trouble  of  climbing  them,  were  anxiously  consulting 


306        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

guides  and  engaging  mules.  A  fragile  little  lady 
swathed  in  deep  black  and  attended  by  a  maid  was 
brought  out  of  the  hotel  wrapped  in  rugs  and  deposited 
in  a  chaise-a-porter. 

"Poor  thing,"  said  a  sympathetic  woman,  as  two 
stalwart  men  lifted  their  light  burden  and  marched  away 
with  it  up  the  street.  "The  doctors  have  sent  her  up  to 
the  Riffel,  but  it  will  be  no  use;  she  will  come  down  in 
her  coffin." 

Rosamund  sighed.  Even  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
brightness  and  life  the  shadow  of  Death  was  stalking. 
The  thought  made  her  turn  her  eyes  for  a  moment  from 
the  gay  scene  about  her,  and  she  looked  for  the  first  time 
up  the  valley  to  where  the  great  Matterhorn  reared  its 
terrific  head  and  shoulders  against  the  glorious  blue  sky. 
She  gave  a  little  gasp.  All  through  Switzerland,  down 
on  the  lakes  and  in  the  busy  gay  streets  of  the  sun-bathed 
towns,  she  had  seen  pictures  of  the  Matterhorn,  photo- 
graphed in  winter  and  in  summer,  draped  in  cloud  or 
sharply  clear.  Its  splendid  outline  had  become  so 
familiar  to  her  that  she  had  scarcely  troubled  to  look  at 
it,  but  now  that  she  really  saw  it  for  the  first  time,  its 
unassailable  majesty  and  glorious  grandeur  thrilled  her 
to  the  soul.  She  could  not  have  imagined  that  anything 
so  marvellous  existed  in  the  world  without  all  that  world 
coming  to  see  it. 

The  summer  had  been  so  open  and  the  autumn  so 
warm  and  fair  that  all  the  snow  had  melted  away  from 
one  side,  which  rose,  a  sheer  black  wall  of  rock,  in 
sharpest  contrast  to  the  delicate  white  mantle  that  veiled 
the  other  shoulder.  Not  so  much  as  a  wisp  of  cloud 
lay  across  it.  It  seemed  to  her  the  most  wonderful  and 
the  most  beautiful  work  of  God  she  had  ever  seen  in  her 
life,  and  as  she  looked  from  it  to  the  great  range  that 


HIGH  PLACES  AND  PERSONS  Z°7 

stretched  right  down  the  valley  and  caught  the  sun 
gleaming  on  the  snowy  sides,  she  ceased  to  wonder  that 
all  this  little  village  and  the  strangers  who  came  to  it 
could  only  talk  and  think  of  mountains.  No  longer  she 
thought  it  strange  that  every  morning  the  whole  of  Zer- 
matt  should  rise  intent  on  getting  nearer  to  those  vast 
solitudes.  She  understood  why  at  last  in  the  drawing- 
room  the  night  before  the  old  and  the  young,  the  men  and 
the  women  alike,  could  only  speak  of  where  they  had  been 
and  where  they  were  going.  Everything  else  seemed 
small.  The  whole  world  was  suddenly  transformed  into 
great  fields  of  ice,  broken  by  mighty  peaks,  and  she  felt 
as  if  she,  too,  had  but  one  ambition,  and  that  was  to  start 
forth  and  go  amongst  them. 

A  party  was  starting,  equipped  like  that  she  had  seen 
the  previous  evening,  in  coarse  clothes  with  rough, 
uncouth  baggage  strapped  across  their  shoulders.  They 
said  "good-bye,"  they  and  the  guides,  and  went  with  a 
swinging  step  out  into  the  street.  As  they  turned  out  of 
sight  she  caught  herself  holding  out  her  hands,  and 
almost  fancied  that  she  had  said  aloud  the  words  that  were 
within  her  heart:  "Take  me  with  you.  Let  me  go,  too. " 

"Your  skirts  are  all  right  for  walking,  but  your  boots 
would  be  no  good,"  said  a  man's  voice  close  by. 

Rosamund,  still  with  the  sense  upon  her  that  she  had 
spoken  her  thought  aloud,  flushed  crimson  as  she  turned, 
and  found  that  the  big  man  with  the  broad  shoulders  and 
the  sunburnt  skin  was  standing  close  by  her  and  looking 
her  up  and  down  with  an  amused  smile  in  his  light  blue 
eyes. 

"You  would  never  get  along  in  them,  you  know,"  he 
said,  shaking  his  head  and  looking  at  her  neatly-shod 
feet.  "Nice,  useful  boots  for  an  English  country  road, 
but  no  good  for  work." 


308        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  am  not  going  to  do  any  work," 
replied  Rosamund,  "if  by  that  you  mean  climbing." 

He  looked  her  up  and  down  again,  his  critical  eyes 
taking  in  every  detail  of  her  well-made,  beautifully  pro- 
portioned body,  her  deep  bust  and  fine  shoulders,  her 
strong,  lithe  limbs,  and  the  clear  skin  which  told 
of  perfect  health.  He  noticed  how  neat  was  her  gown  of 
grey  cloth,  how  closely  her  hair  was  bound  about  her 
shapely  head,  and  how  serviceable  was  her  little  hat. 

"Why  shouldn't  you  climb?"  he  remarked  presently. 
"You  look  cut  out  for  that  kind  of  thing.  Half  the 
women  who  go  in  for  it  break  down  at  the  very  begin- 
ning. That  is  why  I  never  will  work  with  ladies  in  a 
party.  It  spoils  the  whole  business.  But  you  look  as 
if  you  would  be  different." 

She  flushed  a  little  at  the  directness  of  his  compli- 
ments, but  with  feminine  quickness  she  had  already 
gathered  that  a  mountain  hotel  contains  a  community  in 
which  none  can  stand  apart.  The  ordinary  etiquette  of 
life,  that  demands  a  certain  amount  of  formality,  is 
abandoned  in  the  face  of  the  marvellous  surroundings  of 
a  "climbing"  village.  A  mountain  hotel  is  a  republic. 
Each  man  is  as  good  as  another,  until  he  has  won  his 
promotion  by  a  mountaineering  feat.  Then,  and  then 
only,  is  he  a  somebody  and  worthy  of  consideration  from 
his  fellows. 

Rosamund  had  appreciated  that  situation  during  the 
first  five  minutes  she  had  been  in  the  hotel.  Every  one 
spoke  to  every  one  else,  for  the  mountains  were  a  com- 
mon bond  of  union  between  people  of  the  most  opposite 
natures. 

"But  at  least  if  you  do  not  climb,  you  will  go  for 
some  walks." 


HIGH  PLACES  AND  PERSONS       309 

"I  should  like  to,  of  course.  It  seems  to  me  that 
one's  first  instinct  at  a  place  like  this  is  to  get  nearer  to 
those  beautiful  mountains,"  and  she  nodded  towards  the 
great  dentated  wall  of  snow  that  filled  the  horizon. 
"But  I  am  here  with  my  uncle,  and  I  do  not  know  if  he 
means  to  walk  much." 

"But  that  doesn't  matter,"  said  her  companion 
brightly.  "There  is  a  kind  of  freemasonry,  you  know, 
among  people  of  the  same  country  when  they  meet  in 
these  out-of-the-way  places.  Any  of  the  ladies  here,  I 
am  sure,  would  be  only  too  pleased  to  have  you  join  their 
parties." 

"People  are  very  kind,"  answered  Rosamund,  "and 
it  is  probably  my  fault — but  I  never  ,get  on  very  well 
with  strangers." 

She  did  not  mean  to  say  anything  rude,  but  Mr. 
Fraser,  like  many  big  men,  was  inordinately  shy,  espe- 
cially of  the  feminine  sex,  and  at  her  words  the  light 
melted  out  of  his  blue  eyes,  and  squaring  his  big  shoul- 
ders he  made  a  stiff  bow  and  walked  away. 

"Rosamund!  Rosamund!  Why,  you  know  the  celeb- 
rity. Who  introduced  him?" 

Rosamund  turned  to  her  uncle,  and  by  way  of  answer, 
asked  him  another  question. 

"Have  you  had  any  coffee  yet?  The  air  is  fresh  out 
here." 

"No,  I  came  to  find  you,"  he  answered.  "I  have 
been  speaking  to  a  most  charming  woman  in  the  salle. 
I  want  to  introduce  you  to  her  at  once.  She  is  the  most 
wonderful  traveller — been  everywhere  and  knows  every- 
thing. She  says  that  she  can  tell  us  of  a  most  interest- 
ing trip  for  the  coming  winter." 

Taking  ^her    arm,    Mr.    Kerquham    led    Rosamund 


310        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

through  the  busy  hall  into  the  big  dining-room,  where 
two  of  the  long  tables  were  being  perpetually  relaid  for 
early  breakfast. 

"This  is  my  niece — Miss  Sheldrake,"  said  Mr.  Ker- 
quham,  leading  Rosamund  up  to  a  short,  square  lady, 
who  looked  at  her  with  very  piercing  eyes  over  the  top 
of  a  large  piece  of  bread  spread  with  honey. 

"Sit  down,  my  dear,  sit  down  and  give  us  some 
coffee,"  Kerquham  went  on.  "I  want  you  to  listen 
carefully  to  what  Miss  Sheldrake  says.  Her  proposition 
is  most  interesting." 

The  short  lady  smiled  a  large  smile,  and  Rosamund, 
looking  at  her  across  the  narrow  table,  thought  she  was 
quite  the  ugliest  woman  she  had  ever  seen.  Her  hair, 
which  was  short  and  almost  white,  stood  out  in  dishev- 
elled, spiky  locks  about  her  round,  ruddy  face,  which  was 
broad  and  flattened  to  an  absurd  degree.  Her  sturdy 
shoulders  and  flat  chest  were  loosely  garbed  in  a  red 
merino  blouse,  which  was  caught  in  round  the  waist  by 
a  well-worn  leathern  belt.  In  crossing  the  room,  Rosa- 
mund had  noticed  that  her  skirt  of  grey  frieze  was  nar- 
row and  exceedingly  short,  and  that  her  large  square  feet 
were  shod  in  the  most  approved  type  of  mountaineering 
boots. 

"I  have  been  talking  to  your  uncle,  Miss  Keith," 
began  Miss  Sheldrake  in  a  loud,  masculine  voice.  "He 
tells  me  that  he  doesn't  like  this  place  at  all.  Too 
many  people  about,  and  not  at  all  the  sort  of  thing  he 
wants." 

Rosamund  turned  startled  eyes  on  her  uncle.  Last 
night  he  seemed  perfectly  pleased  and  contented  with 
everything.  So  far  as  she  knew  he  had  slept  well. 
Surely  if  there  had  been  any  complaint  to  make,  it  should 
"have  been  to  her  and  not  to  an  utter  stranger.  Perhaps 


HIGH  PLACES  AND  PERSONS  311 

Mr.  Kerquham  read  her  thoughts,  for  he  began  in  tender 
apology: 

"There  is  too  much-  noise  here,  my  dear — a  great 
deal  too  much  noise.  A  lot  of  young  men  and  women 
chattering  and  clattering  about  the  place.  It  disturbs 
me  and  gets  on  my  nerves.  I  feel  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
work  here.  I  was  thinking  while  I  dressed  this  morning 
that  we  must  move  on  to  some  place  out  of  the  beaten 
track — and  then  I  met  this  lady  on  the  stairs — and  she 
quite  agrees  with  me,  Rosamund,  that  this  is  not  at  all 
the  place  for  me  to  be  in.  Presently  she  will  tell  you  of 
a  most  charming  trip  that  she  took  herself  a  year  ago. 
Absolute  solitude — beautiful  scenery — delightful  peo- 
ple— " 

"So  handsome!  so  picturesque!"  ejaculated  Miss 
Sheldrake,  smiling  till  her  mouth  stretched  across  her 
face. 

"Among  whom,"  went  on  Mr.  Kerquham,  "we  shall 
be  very  happy,  my  dear.  Just  you  and  I,  you  know,  in 
a  little  world  of  our  own  with  nobody  to  interrupt  or  to 
worry  us." 

He  held  out  his  hand — a  hand  that  was  thinner  and 
whiter  than  it  used  to  be — to  Rosamund,  and  she,  with 
the  motherly  instinct  that  all  true  women  feel  towards 
those  they  love,  took  his  fingers  in  hers  and  stroked  and 
patted  them. 

"Drink  your  coffee,  dear,  while  it  is  hot.  Then  we 
will  go  outside  and  sit  in  the  sun,  and  perhaps  Miss  Shel- 
drake will  tell  us  of  this  wonderful  trip." 

All  the  morning  through  Rosamund  sat  in  the  veran- 
dah, staring  at  the  immutable  Matterhorn  that  only 
changed  its  expression  with  the  shifting  sun,  and  listened 
to  Miss  Sheldrake's  harsh,  monotonous  voice.  Only 
half  her  attention  was  fixed  on  what  the  lady  said,  and  it 


312        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

was  not  till  they  went  indoors  again  for  breakfast  and 
sat  at  the  little  table  they  had  occupied  the  previous 
night  that  she  at  all  realised  what  the  purport  of  the 
morning's  conversation  had  been. 

"I  must  say,  my  dear,"  began  Mr.  Kerquham,  "the 
idea  pleases  me  very  much.  We  had  better  go  straight 
through  to  Budapest.  We  were  in  Vienna  last 
autumn,  and  don't  want  to  stop  there  again.  From 
there  we  can  get  down  quite  easily,  Miss  Sheldrake 
says,  to  Serajevo  and  on  through  Herzegovina  to  Cet- 
tinje.  Then  we  shall  have  left  everything  behind  us, 
dear,  and  can  do  just  as  we  please  and  wander  through 
that  strange,  unknown  country  till  the  winter  is  past, 
when  we  can  go  over  the  mountains  into  Greece — or  per- 
haps— Miss  Sheldrake  says  that  there  are  parts  of 
Salonica  which  are  charming  and  well  repay  a  visit." 

Rosamund  had  dropped  her  knife  and  fork. 

"But,  uncle,  when  are  we  going  to  do  all  this?" 

"Now,  directly,  of  course,"  he  replied,  energetically. 
"Bless  my  soul!  I  don't  want  to  waste  any  more  time 
here.  We  cannot  get  back  to  Geneva  to-day,  but  you 
must  pack  up  and  we  will  start  in  the  morning." 

"Leave  this  to-morrow?" 

"Certainly.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  all  these  people 
with  their  babel  and  noise  are  making  me  quite  ill? 
Surely  you  don't  want  to  stop  in  a  place  that  you  see  I 
don't  like." 

His  unusual  impatience  hurt  the  girl,  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

"Oh,  uncle,  you  know  that  my  desires  are  yours.  Of 
course  I  will  pack  to-day  and  we  can  go  to-morrow. 
Yet  there  are  things  I  should  like  to  have  seen  here." 

"Miss  Sheldrake  says  the  scenery  in  Montenegro  and 
Albania  is  far  finer  than  anything  here.  You  ought  to 


HIGH  PLACES  AND  PERSONS  313 

be  very  pleased,  Rosamund,  to  be  going  to  a  place  where 
scarcely  an  Englishwoman  has  ever  set  foot.  Now,  my 
dear,  I  will  write  my  letters  home  this  afternoon,  and 
tell  Laura  I  am  glad  to  hear  her  news.  Then  we  will 
walk  down  to  the  station  and  find  out  whether  it  is  best 
for  us  to  go  back  to  Geneva  or  if  we  can  get  to  Vienna 
any  shorter  way." 

Rosamund  finished  her  meal  in  depressed  silence. 
She  was  working  hard  to  do  her  duty,  and  till  lately  it 
had  been  a  labour  of  the  purest  love,  but  she  was  young 
and  healthy  and  active,  and  every  instinct  of  her  nature 
cried  aloud  for  more  varied  companionship  and  a  more 
natural  occupation  than  tending  the  whims  of  a  man, 
who  as  despite  her  love  she  could  not  help  noticing, 
was  growing  more  difficult  to  please  and  cheer  every 
month  of  their  wandering. 

When  he  went  upstairs  to  write  his  letters,  she  still 
sat  at  the  luncheon  table  with  her  chin  in  her  hand,  star- 
ing out  of  the  window  at  the  nearer  pine-clad  mountains 
and  the  distant  snowy  peaks.  She  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  morning  that  she  could  be  so  happy  here.  It 
was  all  so  fresh  and  clear  after  the  close,  hot  cities  in 
which  they  had  lived  for  so  long.  Without  wishing  to 
make  friends  with  any  of  the  people  about  her,  their 
bright  talk  and  their  daily  movements  interested  her  so 
much.  She  had  even  hoped  to  have  gone  a  little  nearer 
these  unattainable  summits  that  were  now  to  prove 
to  her  nothing  but  dreams. 

By-and-bye  she  pushed  her  chair  back  and  sauntered 
dispiritedly  out  of  the  room.  She  knew  her  uncle  was 
busy  upstairs,  so  she  crept  back  again  to  the  corner  in 
the  verandah  where  she  had  spent  the  morning.  The 
place  was  almost  empty  now.  A  few  guides  lounged  in 
the  patch  of  shade,  but  most  of  Zermatt  was  up  among 


3H        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

the  mountains,  for  the  weather  was  so  fair  and  promised 
so  well  that  every  day  saw  the  start  of  big  expeditions. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  little  wooden  terrace  two  Ger- 
mans were  discussing  their  coffee  and  vermouth.  Other- 
wise she  was  alone.  No,  not  exactly,  for  there  was  Mr. 
Fraser  again,  walking  up  the  gravel  road  with  his  heavy 
stride,  and  in  his  shy,  strange  way  taking  off  his  cap  to 
her.  It  was  a  sense  of  loneliness  that  drove  her  to  speak 
to  him.  She  leaned  over  the  balustrade  and  said: 

"You  advised  my  taking  some  walks  about  here,  and 
I  told  you  I  did  not  think  I  should  be  able  to.  Now  I 
know  I  cannot." 

"Why  not?     Do  your  boots  hurt  you?" 

Rosamund  shook  her  head  and  smiled. 

"You  seem  to  have  a  very  bad  opinion  of  my  boot- 
maker, or  else  of  me,  for  you  persist  in  thinking  that  I 
am  ill  shod.  But  it  is  not  my  boots.  I  am  going  away 
to-morrow." 

"What  for?"  said  Mr.  Fraser.  He  came  up  the  steps 
of  the  verandah,  and  gaining  her  side  sat  down  in  a 
wicker  chair,  which  creaked  beneath  his  weight.  .  "Is 
the  hotel  uncomfortable?  If  so,  I  will  just  speak  to  the 
people  here.  They  know  me  and  will  do  anything  I  ask 
them." 

"Our  rooms  are  charming." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"A  lady  here  has  been  putting  it  into  my  uncle's  head 
that  it  is  not  a  very  nice  place,  and  has  been  advising 
him  to  take  the  most  extraordinary  journey  into  the 
most  out-of-the-way  part  of  the  world." 

Mr.  Fraser  leaned  forward  on  his  knees. 

"Miss  Sheldrake?"  he  queried. 

Rosamund  nodded. 

"Do  you  know  her?"  she  said. 


HIGH  PLACES  AND  PERSONS  315 

"Don't  I?  If  she  were  not  a  woman  I  should  say  she 
was  the  original  wandering  Jew,  and  the  worst  of  her  is 
that  because  she  is  always  on  the  move  herself,  she 
thinks  everybody  else  ought  to  be  so,  too.  It  makes  her 
positively  miserable  to  see  people  arriving  at  a  place 
with  a  lot  of  trunks  and  bags  and  things  and  settling 
down  for  a  nice  comfortable  stay.  On  what  track  has 
she  sent  your  uncle  off?" 

"I  scarcely  know,"  said  Rosamund,  shaking  her 
head.  "I  am  afraid  I  am  very  ignorant,  but  I  know  we 
go  to  Budapest  and  then  to  Herzegovina  and  Mon- 
tenegro. " 

"You  and  your  uncle?  That  old  gentleman  I  saw 
with  you  last  night — are  going  on  that  journey  alone?" 

"Yes;  we  have  no  one  else  to  go  with  us." 

Mr.  Eraser's  light  eyes  grew  dark  with  thought  for  a 
moment. 

"I  was  proposing  to  go  that  way  myself  soon,"  he 
said.  "When  do  you  start?" 

"We  leave  here  to-morrow  morning.' 

"Ah!  I  had  thought  of  going  to-morrow,  too.  Will 
you  introduce  me  to  your  uncle?" 

"With  pleasure,"  answered  Rosamund;  "here  he  is." 

Mr.  Kerquham  came  out  of  the  hotel  with  some  let- 
ters in  his  hand. 

"Uncle,"  cried  Rosamund,  springing  to  her  feet,  "this 
gentleman  has  been  talking  to  me  about  the  journey  you 
propose  to  make." 

Mr.  Kerquham  looked  up  and  lifted  his  soft  felt  hat 
from  his  head  with  old-fashioned  courtesy. 

"I  am  delighted  to  meet  you,  sir.  I  was  hearing  only 
last  night  of  your  exploits.  You  are  quite  a  celebrity 
here.  Your  name,  I  think,  is  Fraser. " 

Mr.  Fraser  bowed. 


316        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"I  wonder  if  by  chance  you  are  related  to  the 
Frasers  of  Lochie  Hall." 

"Certainly;  my  father  was  a  second  cousin  of  the 
present  laird." 

At  that  Mr.  Kerquham  slipped  his  arm  into  Mr.  Fra- 
ser's  and  forgot  all  about  Rosamund.  The  two  men 
walked  down  the  steps  and  across  to  the  post  office.  For 
a  moment  she  hesitated,  and  [then  followed  them.  From 
the  post  office  they  went  down  to  the  station,  where  Mr. 
Kerquham  delved  into  the  intricacies  of  Swiss  time- 
tables and  through  services  to  Austro-Hungary.  Now 
and  then  Rosamund  caught  a  few  words  which  induced 
her  to  think  that  Mr.  Fraser  was  trying  to  dissuade  her 
uncle  from  his  projected  journey.  Once,  indeed,  he 
turned  aside  to  her  and  murmured : 

"He  has  a  will  of  his  own,  your  uncle." 

Rosamund  smiled  gravely. 

"You  are  very  kind.  I  know  what  you  are  doing,  but 
it  is  no  use.  He  has  made  up  his  mind  to  go  on  this 
journey,  and  he  will  do  so." 

"Then  that  settles  it,"  said  Hugh  Fraser,  in  his 
blunt  way,  and  offered  his  arm  once  more  to  Mr.  Ker- 
quham. 

When  they  left  the  station  they  went  up  the  street  as 
far  as  the  little  storm-beaten  church,  where  in  the  nar- 
row limits  of  the  churchyard  lie  so  many  men  who  have 
died  terrible  deaths  on  the  mountain  sides.  In  the  angle 
of  a  buttress  Rosamund  read  the  inscriptions  on  the 
tombs  of  those  Englishmen  whose  lives  were  demanded 
in  speedy  sacrifice  by  the  first  conquered  Matterhorn. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  church  and  under  the  lee  of  the 
little  mortuary  chapel,  where  even  that  afternoon  a  dead 
guide  lay  waiting  burial,  she  saw  the  rows  of  graves,  each 
with  a  little  wooden  cross  at  its  head,  and  all  so  simple 


HIGH  PLACES  AND  PERSONS  317 

and  poor.  On  one  side  of  her  were  the  hotels  where  the 
wealthy  English  and  Americans  danced  and  flirted  and 
passed  such  hours  as  they  had  to  spare  between  their 
mountain  scrambles.  On  the  other  hand  were  the 
guides'  cottages — wretched  little  wooden  huts,  stained 
by  the  weather  to  a  soft,  velvety  brown,  falling  into  a 
thousand  pieces  and  leaning  over  on  their  worn  piles 
into  the  ooze  and  dirt  of  the  narrow  street. 

On  the  green  hillside  behind  the  cottages  the  tethered 
cows  were  being  milked,  and  broad-faced  women  with 
small  eyes  and  scanty  hair  were  labouring  up  and  down 
the  little  sheeptracks  laden  with  heavy  pails.  Already 
the  return  of  the  day's  excursionists  had  begun,  and  as 
she  and  her  uncle  and  Mr.  Fraser  walked  along,  they 
were  jostled  and  pushed  by  the  patient  mules  on  to  the 
little  footpath  which,  in  its  turn,  was  overhung  almost 
to  the  edge  by  the  stalls  of  the  shopkeepers.  What  a 
strange  mixture,  she  thought  to  herself,  as  she  looked  at 
the  village  round  her,  with  its  poverty  and  wealth,  and 
then  up  at  the  mighty,  frozen  mountains,  all  flushed  rose 
pink  in  the  setting  sun.  And  she  remembered  that  this 
wretched  place  was  only  kept  alive  and  for  the  handful 
of  moneyed  people  who  went  there  year  after  year  and 
used  it  as  a  playground  for  a  few  weeks. 

The  two  men  stopped  in  front  of  the  Mont  Rosa  Hotel, 
and  sitting  down  at  a  little  table  ordered  some  coffee. 

"And  what  is  your  real  opinion  of  Zermatt?"  said  Mr. 
Fraser  to  Rosamund,  as  they  sat  together. 

"I  don't  quite  know.  This  morning  from  the  hotel 
verandah  it  looked  the  brightest,  happiest,  merriest 
place  in  the  world,  but  now,  since  I  have  gone  up  the 
street  and  seen  the  poor  little  church  and  the  God's 
Acre  full  of  the  dead  fathers  and  sons  of  the  women  who 
live  here,  now  that  I  have  seen  their  wretched  homes, 


31 8        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

their  awful  poverty  and  their  unspeakable  dirt,  I  think 
it  is  a  very  sad  place." 

"They  are  not  so  poor  as  you  think,"  said  Fraser. 
"In  bad  years  it  goes  hard  with  them,  for  they  live  for 
nine  months  out  of  every  twelve  on  what  is  made  during 
the  tourists'  season,  but  a  splendid  year  like  this,  when 
from  May  to  September  Zermatt  is  crowded,  means  pros- 
perity to  the  whole  community." 

"But  why  don't  they  make  it  any  cleaner?"  she  cried 
a  little  disgustedly,  as  a  tired  pack  horse  stumbled 
through  the  mire,  splashing  her  neat  gown. 

"To  alter  Zermatt  would  be  to  spoil  it.  I  have  come 
here  ever  since  I  was  a  boy,  and  my  father  came  for 
years  before  me.  I  do  not  believe  a  cottage  has  been 
mended  since  I  knew  it,  or  the  road  even  cleaned;  but 
we  old  habitues  love  it  best  like  that.  It  is  picturesque, 
and  it  reminds  us  of  all  the  good  times  we  have  had 
here." 

"Rosamund  is  much  too  particular,"  remarked  Mr. 
Kerquham,  helping  himself  to  a  second  glass  of  fine 
champagne.  "From  what  Miss  Sheldrake  tells  me,  she 
will  have  a  lot  to  put  up  with  when  we  get  down  into 
Turkey." 

"Then  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  like  it,  uncle,"  said  Rosa- 
mund, with  a  grave  smile. 

"lam  afraid  you  will  not,"  assented  Fraser,  under 
his  breath. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

'MID   MOSQUES  AND   MINARETS 

THE  Kerquhams'  journey,  in  which  Mr.  Fraser  joined 
them,  commenced  under  the  most  commonplace  circum- 
stances. It  was  only  when  they  swept  through  the  val- 
leys and  gorges  of  the  Austrian  Tyrol,  and  he  saw  the 
little  cottages  nestling  among  the  woods,  that  Mr.  Ker- 
quham  expressed  any  pleasure. 

Even  Budapest,  the  "Pearl  of  the  Danube,"  with 
its  handsome  women  and  its  fine  men,  had  no  attraction 
for  him,  and  they  only  rested  there  twenty-four  hours 
before  taking  train  for  the  East. 

For  it  was  indeed  the  East,  with  its  dirt  and  its  pic- 
turesqueness,  its  dark-skinned  men  and  its  veiled  women, 
into  which  Rosamund  stepped  with  magic  sudden- 
ness when  she  alighted  from  the  train  at  Bosnia's  border 
town  of  Brod.  The  porters  at  the  dingy  little  station 
wore  the  fez,  the  embroidered  jacket,  and  the  loose 
trousers  that  mark  the  Turk,  and  as  the  train  rumbled 
away,  Rosamund  caught  sight  of  a  veiled  face  peeping 
curiously  through  a  latticed  window.  As  the  sun  rose 
and  a  flood  of  pink  light  revealed  the  whole  landscape  to 
her  wondering  eyes,  she  thought  for  a  moment  that  she 
was  back  in  Switzerland.  Great  rounded  hills  swelled 
up  on  either  side  of  the  railway.  Close  to  the  track 
rushed  and  roared  an  angry  little  stream  that  leaped  over 
stones  and  gurgled  round  boulders  in  a  fashion  that  was 
quite  familiar  to  her. 


320        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Are  you  disappointed?"  asked  Fraser  from  his  seat 
opposite  her,  when,  after  gazing  out  of  the  window  for 
an  hour,  she  leaned  back  and  half-closed  her  eyes. 

"A  little,  perhaps,  but  I  suppose  I  expected  too  much, 
and  yet  I  do  not  quite  know  what  I  thought  I  should 
see." 

"Wait  till  we  get  to  Serajevo!  That  is  Oriental,  if 
you  like,  from  one  end  of  the  town  to  the  other.  It 
might  be  a  bit  of  Persia  cut  out  and  dropped  into 
Europe." 

Mr.  Kerquham  looked  up  from  among  his  papers. 

"That  is  the  worst  of  it,"  he  said.  "Serajevo  is  a 
town.  My  niece  will  have  no  new  sensations  till  she 
finds  herself  in  the  Highlands  of  Albania." 

Mr.  Fraser  faced  round  in  his  seat. 

"Are  you  serious,  Mr.  Kerquham,  in  your  determina- 
tion to  go  so  far  at  this  time  of  the  year?" 

"This  time  of  the  year?"  he  repeated,  sharply. 
"What  is  the  matter  with  the  time  of  the  year?" 

"It  is  very  late,  and  the  weather  is  treacherous  in 
these  southern  countries." 

"Nonsense!  it  is  the  most  open  year  they  have  had 
within  the  memory  of  man.  I  do  not  mind  betting  you, 
Mr.  Fraser,  that  they  are  still  climbing  at  Zermatt. " 

"But  Zermatt  is  not  Albania,  Mr.  Kerquham.  There 
is  half  a  continent  between  the  two  places." 

Rosamund  slipped  her  foot  from  under  her  skirt  and 
touched  Mr.  Fraser,  while  her  big  eyes  implored  him 
dumbly  to  change  the  conversation,  or  at  any  rate  to 
cease  to  discuss  the  proposed  trip. 

He  looked  back  at  her  now  with  a  reassuring  smile, 
and  turning  again  to  the  window  studied  the  landmarks 
and  told  her  that  within  an  hour  she  would  see  the  white 
minarets  of  Serajevo.  Until  then  there  was  plenty  to 


'MZD  MOSQUES  AND  MINARETS  321 

look  at,  for  as  they  came  nearer  the  town  the  country 
grew  full  of  life. 

The  road  ran  close  by  the  railway,  and  country  carts, 
laden  high  with  field  produce  and  driven  by  cross-legged 
Turks,  were  creeping  along  with  Oriental  slowness. 
Women,  who  looked  mere  bundles  of  garments,  were 
filling  water-pots  from  the  stream.  In  the  middle  of 
every  little  cluster  of  cottages  the  minarets  of  white 
mosques  gleamed  like  snowy  marble  among  the  still 
green  trees.  The  line  crossed  a  plain  that  was  verdant 
and  smooth  as  a  lawn.  It  was  girdled  by  high  hills, 
some  of  them  bare  and  stern,  others  clothed  with  foliage 
as  a  stately  dame  is  clothed  in  green  velvet.  Suddenly 
Hugh  Fraser  leaned  forward  and  caught  Rosamund  by  the 
arm. 

"Look  now!"  he  cried.  "There  is  Serajevo.  They 
call  it  the  'Golden  City.'  Is  it  not  beautiful?" 

And  beautiful  it  was  to  the  girl  whose  eyes  had  been 
sated  with  the  regularity  and  stateliness,  the  order  and 
method  which  has  governed  the  building  of  all  the  great 
cities  of  Europe.  The  jumble  of  white  palaces  and  little 
hovels,  the  exquisite  mosques  towering  up  against  the 
blue  sky,  and  the  flat  mud-coloured  houses  that  clustered 
round  them,  the  incongruous  solid  red  brick  buildings 
that  the  Austrians  had  built,  the  babble  of  an  unknown 
tongue,  and  the  passing  of  an  unknown  people  all 
delighted  her,  as  she  stepped  from  the  train. 

The  whole  city  was  dominated  by  the  great  citadel, 
and  the  big  hotel  to  which  they  went  in  search  of  rooms 
was  a  fine  specimen  of  western  architecture.  But  the 
.girl  cared  for  neither  of  these,  and  was  only  perfectly 
happy  when  Hugh  Fraser  took  her  to  the  bazaar. 

What  a  magically  suggestive  word  is  that!  To  Euro- 
peans it  seems  to  mean  so  much  until  it  is  attained,  and 


322         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

then  they  find  it  means  nothing  at  all.  Never  could 
Rosamund  have  imagined  such  a  maze  of  narrow  streets, 
darkened  by  the  overhanging  roofs  of  the  low  houses, 
which  nearly  met  overhead.  The  narrow  opening  that 
was  left  between  the  eaves  was  overgrown  by  a  tangle 
of  a  climbing  plant,  which  cast  a  greenish  shadow  over 
the  scene  beneath.  The  road — for  there  was  no  pave- 
ment— was  ankle-deep  in  mud  and  dirt,  and  she  found 
it  hard  to  force  her  way  between  the  stalls  which  were 
let  down  from  the  fronts  of  the  houses  and  laden  with 
the  most  strange  collection  of  goods  she  could  have 
imagined.  Here  a  board  was  filled  with  fruit — fine  plums 
and  pumpkins — and  next  to  that  was  a  pile  of  gold 
embroidery  worked  upon  crimson  velvet  and  fine  black 
cloth.  A  man  sold  fezes  just  beyond,  and  three  half- 
grown  lads  were  carefully  suiting  themselves  with  head- 
gear in  the  middle  of  the  jostling  crowd. 

At  the  corner  of  one  street  an  aroma  of  coffee  filled 
the  air,  and  opposite  a  Spanish  Jew  was  vaunting  in  loud 
tones  the  merits  of  his  wonderful  nargilehs.  At  one  little 
shop — it  was  a  mere  hole  in  the  wall — Rosamund  paused 
and  bought  a  fine  gold  chain  to  send  to  Laura  as  a  wed- 
ding present.  He  was  a  grey-bearded  Turk  who  sold  it 
to  her,  and  the  bargaining  between  himself  and  Mr. 
Fraser  was  long  and  fierce.  Rosamund  thought  it  would 
never  end,  and  a  dozen  times  urged  her  companion  to 
pay  the  price  that  was  asked  and  let  them  go  away.  But 
Hugh  Fraser  had  not  travelled  the  world  for  nothing, 
and  he  only  smiled  his  quiet  smile  at  her,  squared  his  big 
shoulders,  and  returned  to  the  fray  with  unabated  vigour. 

"There!"  he  said  at  last  as  he  put  the  parcel  into  her 
hands,  "you  have  only  paid  a  quarter  more  than  the 
value  of  the  thing.  I  would  have  beaten  him  down  to 
the  proper  price  if  you  had  let  me." 


MOSQUES  AND  MINARETS  323 

She  laughed.     "How  do  the  natives  manage?" 

She  stepped  aside  out  of  the  mire  to  let  a  string  of 
donkeys  laden  with  market  produce  go  by.  Women  with 
long  veils  and  heavy  cloaks  were  driving  them. 

"I  suppose  they  do  not  rob  one  another  much,"  she 
went  on. 

"No,  it  is  a  question  of  degree;  the  Jews  rob  the 
Turks,  of  course,  and  the  Greeks  best  the  Jews.  Now 
I  am  going  to  take  you  to  see  the  great  mosque  here. 
It  is  pure  Byzantine,  and  they  say  that  the  lime  tree 
that  grows  in  the  court  is  the  biggest  in  the  world.  It 
was  high  summer  when  I  came  here  last,  and  of  an  evert- 
ing, in  the  fountain  that  lies  beneath  its  shade,  there 
were  scores  of  Turks  bathing." 

"But  I  thought,"  cried  Rosamund,  "that  the  Turks 
never  did  bathe." 

"Most  of  them  don't,  but  a  certain  amount  of  water 
enters  into  their  religion.  Apart  from  that  they  are  the 
most  frankly  unwashed  people  that  exist.  You  will 
find  that  out  a  little  later  as  you  travel  further  south." 

"How  can  we  get  to  Jajace?"  asked  Mr.  Kerquham, 
when  at  length  they  returned  to  the  hotel. 

"We  can  go  by  train  to  the  foot  of  the  old  Citadel," 
answered  Mr.  Fraser,  "that  wonderful  monument  which 
will  keep  in  the  memory  of  man  forever  the  name  of 
Keglevitch,  who  held  it  against  all  Turkey,  and  who, 
when  he  died,  was  still  unconquered." 

They  were  roused  at  dawn  the  next  day  by  the  call- 
ing of  the  "muezzin"  to  prayer.  From  the  roof  of  every 
mosque  the  summons  went  forth,  and  Rosamund,  lean- 
ing from  her  window,  thought  how  wonderful  it  was  that 
at  that  moment  every  true  Mussulman  in  the  city  was 
sending  up  the  same  petition  to  his  God. 

They  started  betimes,   for  the  trip  was  a  long  one, 


324        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

among  high  mountains  that  were  virgin  to  the  foot  of 
man,  and  past  valleys  in  which  they  could  see  the  maize 
crops  and  the  pastures  where  the  sheep  fed.  When  they 
arrived  at  Jajace  they  fulfiled  the  traditions  of  all  trav- 
ellers. They  wondered  at  the  citadel  and  drank  coffee 
in  the  beautiful  old  gateway.  They  climbed  the  winding 
streets  that  cut  a  tortuous  way  between  the  thickly 
placed  houses;  they  marvelled  at  the  holy  ramparts,  and 
then  wended  their  way  down  the  rough  path  to  see 
the  great  cascade  which  shakes  the  old  city  by  day  and 
by  night,  and  fills  the  air  with  an  everlasting  roar  of 
many  waters.  They  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  ravine  and 
watched  the  two  rivers  Plevna  and  Verbas  meet  and 
mingle  their  floods  and  fling  them  over  the  side  of  the 
great  ravine  into  the  river-bed,  where  huge  boulders  and 
rocks  break  the  waters  into  foam  rich  with  a  thou- 
sand iridescent  colours. 

Then  they  took  a  carriage — a  queer  little  wooden 
box  devoid  of  springs  or  cushions,  and  drawn  by  three 
rough  ponies — and  dashed  out  to  Jezero,  the  fashionable 
suburb  of  the  older  town,  where  there  was  a  lake  bor- 
dered with  graceful  villas  surrounded  by  verandahs. 

Such  were  Rosamund's  memories  of  Bosnia,  for  within 
a  few  hours  they  were  again  in  the  train,  and  leaving  the 
swelling  wood-clad  hills  behind  them,  they  rushed  into 
the  bare,  sun-scorched,  awe-inspiring  Herzegovina. 

The  day  was  not  hot  enough  to  travel  in  the  roofless 
carriages  and  the  train  was  stuffy  and  close,  while  the 
limestone  dust  which  lay  thick  on  everything  choked 
them.  The  passes  through  which  they  sped  were 
broken  merely  by  great  crags  and  the  sparsest  of  coarse 
vegetation.  It  was  all  very  grand,  very  lonely,  and  very 
terrible.  It  was  only  when  they  came  down  into  the 
plain  of  Mosta  that  lines  of  green  and  patches  of  trees 


'MID  MOSQUES  AND  MINARETS  325 

broke  the  bare  aspect  of  the  country.  It  was  growing 
dusk  as  they  steamed  towards  the  city,  but  there  was 
light  enough  to  see  that  Hugh  Eraser's  keen  eyes  looked 
troubled  and  grave.  . 

"They  have  had  a  very  bad  summer  here,"  he  said, 
drawing  his  head  in  from  the  open  window.  "The 
tobacco  has  all  been  burned  up  with  the  heat  and  there 
is  next  to  no  maize  crop." 

"Yes,  but  look  at  those  lovely  pomegranate  bushes," 
cried  Rosamund.  "I  can  see  their  flowers  like  great 
flames  through  the  gloom." 

"I  am  afraid  that  they  are  no  sign  of  fertility  and  a 
good  harvest,  but  when  we  drive  out  to-morrow  you  will 
see  what  an  awful  climate  this  place  has.  They  are 
burnt  up  for  eight  months  out  of  the  twelve  and  frozen 
for  the  other  four.  I  would  sooner  live  anywhere  than 
here." 

"Even  in  Albania?"  said  Rosamund,  with  a  little 
laugh,  for  Mr.  Fraser's  dislike  for  that  country  had 
become  a  joke  with  the  party. 

At  Mosta  the  hotel  was  good,  and  to  Rosamund's 
astonishment  the  man  who  attended  on  them  at  dinner 
spoke  a  fair  smattering  of  English.  In  the  evening  they 
walked  out  for  an  hour  before  retiring  to  bed.  Every 
door  and  window  of  the  houses  was  closed  with  thick 
shutters,  only  the  upper  stories  having  light  green  blinds, 
which  indicated  that  the  harem  lay  behind  them.  The 
housetops  were  flat,  and  here  and  there  a  head  peeped 
above  the  coping  and  stared  at  the  travellers  below. 
The  streets  were  narrow  and  crowded  and  smelt  most 
evilly,  for  Mosta  is  more  than  Eastern  in  its  dirt. 

Next  morning,  before  leaving,  they  went  to  see  the 
famous  bridge — that  single  arch  of  which  the  inhabitants 
are  so  proud.  In  the  streets,  which  were  bright  and 


326        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

sunny,  although  it  was  October,  Rosamund's  keen  eyes 
noticed  how  lazily  the  men  lounged  against  the  houses. 
No  one  seemed  to  work,  and  when  later  on  they  drove 
through  the  little  fields — most  of  them  seeming  no  bigger 
than  a  tablecloth — she  noticed  that  they  were  quite 
deserted,  and  that  only  here  and  there,  at  rarest  in- 
tervals, a  brown-skinned,  prematurely-aged  woman 
scratched  the  uncongenial  soil.  They  drove  across  the 
plain  to  a  little  village  which  clustered  round  a  great 
house. 

"They  are  making  wine  here,"  said  Hugh  Fraser. 
"It  is  awful  stuff,  but  it  is  what  they  drink  among  them- 
selves." 

The  carriage  pulled  up,  and  the  whole  picturesque 
scene  was  before  them.  Men  and  women  together  were 
working,  and  the  red  grapes,  the  blatimea,  and  the  white 
Zelenka  were  brought,  mixed  together,  in  rough  baskets 
and  low  wooden  carts.  Without  being  sorted  or  over- 
looked they  were  tossed  into  a  low  vat,  and  there  trod- 
den and  pressed  in  the  most  primitive  fashion.  A  num- 
ber of  half-naked,  brown  children  scrambled  about  on 
the  ground  among  the  workers.  Their  mouths  and 
faces  were  stained  with  grape  juice,  and  though  they 
were  extremely  and  unspeakably  dirty,  they  had  yet  the 
charm  and  beauty  that  appertains  to  all  young  things. 
Rosamund,  who  had  left  the  carriage,  caught  one  of  the 
little  creatures  in  her  arms,  and  picking  it  up,  pressed 
its  dimpled  face  against  her  own.  A  big,  fat  woman, 
who  had  thrown  aside  her  heavy  cloak  and  was  helping 
to  fling  the  grapes  into  the  wine-press,  laughed  and 
nodded  at  the  English  girl. 

"Are  you  so  fond  of  children?"  said  Fraser. 

"Indeed  I  am,"  she  answered,  hugging  the  little  kick- 
ing thing  to  her,  and  laughing  at  its  impotent  struggles 


'MID  MOSQUES  AND  MINARETS  327 

to  get  free.  "Who  could  help  loving  such  funny  little 
beings  as  these?  They  would  be  nicer  of  course  if  they 
were  washed,  but  they  are  so  innocent  and  so  young,  and 
their  brown  skins  are  so  firm  and  dimpled  that  they  are 
quite  irresistible." 

She  let  the  little  one  go  after  pressing  some  silver 
into  its  dirty,  fat  palm,  and  then,  leaning  against  the 
carriage,  began  to  ask  questions  about  the  wine-making 
and  how  they  tended  the  vines.  Fraser  answered  her 
at  random,  for  all  his  thoughts  were  occupied  with  noting 
her  fine  physique  and  frank  nature,  her  perfectly  healthy 
mind  and  her  exquisitely  proportioned  body.  Surely 
she  was  destined  to  be  a  good  mother  to  handsome  chil- 
dren. 

But  she  chattered  on  about  the  people  and  the  scene. 
A  young  Turk  came  and  stood  by  them  and  told  them 
that  the  people  hoped  to  do  better  with  the  grapes  than 
they  had  with  the  plums  that  year,  that  there  had  been 
no  rain  all  the  summer  through,  and  that  the  caterpillars 
had  eaten  the  leaves  and  the  fruit  had  dried  up  on  the 
trees. 

"The  whole  country  lives  on  those  kind  of  things," 
said  Fraser,  when  he  had  finished  translating  to  Rosa- 
mund. "Their  tobacco  and  their  plums  are  the  only 
things  they  manage  to  sell  to  other  countries.  They 
drink  the  wine  themselves,  and  the  maize  they  use  for 
bread.  They  could  do  much  better  if  they  would  only 
allow  Western  invention  to  come  to  their  aid  a  little." 

But  Rosamund  was  looking  now  at  something  else. 

"Ah,  see!"  she  cried.  "She  is  the  most  typical 
woman  I  have  seen  yet." 

The  woman  at  whom  she  pointed  was  evidently  a 
stranger  in  those  parts,  for  all  the  people  were  looking 
at  her.  She  was  dressed  in  an  immensely  full  pair  of 


328        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

black  shalvars,  or  Turkish  trousers,  which  by  reason 
of  their  fulness  made  her  ankles  look  singularly  slender 
and  her  feet  very  small.  A  little  jacket  of  purple  velvet, 
edged  with  a  narrow  fringe  of  gold,  crossed  her  shoulders 
and  opened  over  the  bosom  to  show  a  finely  pleated 
chemisette  of  white  crepe.  On  her  head  was  a  small 
turban,  kept  in  its  place  by  large  gold  pins  and  from 
beneath  which  her  black  hair  hung  in  two  long  plaits 
which  were  fastened  at  the  ends  by  golden  ornaments. 

"She  comes  from  the  Bosnian  frontier,  I  think,"  said 
Fraser.  "How  picturesque  she  is,  and  how  well  you 
would  look  in  a  dress  like  that." 

Mr.  Kerquham  leaned  out  of  the  carriage. 

"Rosamund,  when  we  get  back  to  Mosta  we  must  try 
and  get  a  costume  like  that  for  you.  I  will  paint  you  in 
it." 

They  drove  back  to  Mosta  by  the  light  of  the  setting 
sun. 

"How  short  the  days  are  getting,"  sighed  Rosamund, 
as  they  turned  their  backs  on  the  merry  group  of  wine- 
makers. 

"Yes,  it  is  almost  the  middle  of  October,"  said 
Fraser. 

The  thought  that  this  fast-aging  old  man  and  this 
young  girl  were  going  in  a  few  days  to  leave  behind 
them  every  vestige  of  civilisation  and  go  alone  into  an 
absolutely  unknown  country  struck  him  again,  and  he 
resolved  to  make  another  effort  to  prevent  what  he  con- 
sidered a  most  foolish  expedition.  He  called  up  to  the 
driver  in  Italian:  "When  does  your  winter  begin  here? 
You  must  have  had  enough  of  this  hot  weather." 

The  man  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  letting  his  horses  go 
their  own  way. 


>MID  MOSQUES  AND  MINARETS  329 

"The  summer  has  been  terrible,"  he  said  in  his 
bastard  language;  "but  the  winter  will  be  worse." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Mr.  Kerquham. 

"We  have  had  no  rain  all  the  summer,  signer.  The 
sky  has  been  cloudless  for  many  months,  but  Allah  is 
just  and  makes  everything  equal,  and  what  does  not  fall 
in  the  summer  must  come  down  in  the  winter." 

"Then  you  fear  the  snows?" 

"We  get  winds  here  and  rains,"  said  the  man,  "but 
from  the  mountains  the  workpeople  are  coming  down 
fast.  The  Italians  are  hurrying  home.  They  do  not 
like  the  cold,  and  a  brother  of  mine  who  works  at  Cataro 
says  the  town  is  crowded,  for  there  is  no  money  to  be 
earned  in  the  Highlands  until  the  spring  comes." 

"Attend  to  your  horses,  my  good  man,"  cried  Mr. 
Kerquham,  sharply,  for  he  guessed  the  drift  that  the 
conversation  would  take.  Then,  with  the  obstinacy  of 
a  man  who  feels  that  he  has  made  a  mistake  in  the 
beginning,  but  intends  to  go  through  with  it,  he  turned 
to  Rosamund  and  said:  "If  there  is  any  chance  of  the 
weather  breaking,  we  had  better  go  to  Cettinje  at  once. 
The  sooner  we  get  into  the  Highlands,  the  sooner  we 
shall  be  in  some  sweet,  sheltered  spot  in  Greece." 

"You  think  of  going  on  to  Greece?"  asked  Fraser. 

"I  am  not  quite  sure.  I  shall  see.  Sometimes  I 
fancy  I  shall  make  for  Constantinople." 

The  sun  had  set  by  now,  and  over  the  plain  a  grey 
dimness  had  crept.  Mosta,  with  its  low  houses  and  .fair 
white  minarets,  looked  like  a  dream  city  in  the  distance. 
Rosamund  leaned  back  as  well  as  she  could  in  the  rough 
carriage  and  sighed.  It  seemed  a  pity  that  Mr.  Fraser 
should  worry  so  about  the  journey  into  Albania.  Every- 
thing had  been  so  pleasant  up  till  now.  The  people 


330        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

were  courteous,  the  hotels  were  good,  and  the  cities  and 
sights  were  beautiful.  It  was  to  her  a  very  pleasant 
way  of  travelling — more  congenial  to  her  by  far  than 
putting  up  in  the  huge  caravanseras  and  spending  long 
weary  days  in  picture  galleries  and  museums.  She 
almost  wished  that  he  would  not  be  so  persistent.  It 
would  be  so  much  better  to  leave  things  as  they  were, 
and  let  her  uncle  carry  through  his  pet  scheme. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

THE    WIFE    OF    A    GENTLEMAN    WELL    KNOWN    IN 
THE  BEST  SOCIETY 

THE  further  out  of  the  beaten  track  Rosamund  and  her 
uncle  travelled,  the  more  did  Mr.  Kerquham's  health 
and  spirits  seem  to  improve.  The  autumn  days  were 
perfectly  radiant,  and  the  scenery  through  which  they 
passed  was  the  most  exquisite  they  had  ever  seen.  The 
valleys  which  lay  between  the  wooded  hills  had  already 
been  cleared  of  their  crops  of  maize  and  rye,  and  the 
tobacco  fields  had  almost  everywhere  been  stripped,  but 
it  was  easy  to  see  in  those  low  lands,  which  are  often 
inundated  in  the  spring  months  and  where  the  climate 
is  always  warm  and  moist,  that  the  crops  had  been  good 
and  that  fertility  was  the  general  rule.  The  little  vil- 
lages, too,  although  poor  and  simple,  were  well  kept,  and 
the  huts  of  wattle  and  mud  were  in  good  repair  and 
occupied  by  a  contented  people. 

At  Cettinje  they  left  the  train  for  good  and  all.  The 
evening  before  they  left  the  tiny  capital  of  Montenegro, 
which  in  the  distance  looked  like  nothing  more  than  a 
handful  of  rocks  strewed  upon  an  arid  plain,  Hugh 
Fraser  took  Rosamund  to  the  bazaar,  and  there  made 
ner  buy  one  of  the  heavy  cloaks  which  the  country  peo- 
ple wear  during  the  winter.  In  vain  she  argued  that  she 
had  some  furs  with  her,  a  sealskin  coat,  and  a  boa  of 
sable. 

33' 


332         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"You  won't  regret  your  purchase,"  he  answered, 
"and  after  all,  if  you  don't  want  it,  you  can  bestow  it  in 
charity  on  some  one  who  does." 

The  guide  they  engaged  was  called  Matia.  He  was 
tall,  lithe,  and  fair  of  hair,  like  all  the  Miridite  tribe — 
Highlanders  who  live  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Black 
Mountains  of  Montenegro  and  the  north  of  Albania.  He 
did  not  wear  the  loose,  easy  clothes  of  the  Turk,  or  the 
flowing  petticoats  and  embroidered  jacket  of  the  coun- 
try, for  his  lower  limbs  were  clothed  in  tight  trousers. 
About  his  waist  he  carried  such  arms  as  he  could  afford 
and  a  yatakhan.  Across  his  back  was  strapped  the  uni- 
versally worn  long-barrelled  Martini-Peabody  rifle,  and 
the  close-fitting  cap  on  his  head  was  bound  round  his 
brows  by  a  twisted  red  shawl.  He  was  a  Skreli  guide, 
and  had  passed  his  whole  life  between  the  ports  of 
Cataro,  San  Giovanni  di  Medua,  and  the  capital,  and  had 
even — so  he  said — been  over  to  Italy.  He  spoke  a 
language  which  he  called  Italian,  but  which  bore  a  very 
distant  resemblance  to  such.  Neither  Rosamund  nor 
Hugh  Fraser  liked  him,  for  his  fine  blue  eyes  had  a 
queer  trick  of  shifting  from  the  face  of  the  person  to 
whom  he  spoke,  but  he  pleased  Mr.  Kerquham  with  his 
picturesque,  swaggering  air  and  his  assurances  that  he 
knew  every  pass  that  led  over  the  Charra  Dagh  Moun- 
tains into  Turkey.  It  was  Matia,  too,  who,  when  Rosa- 
mund and  Fraser  pointed  out  to  Mr.  Kerquham  the 
crowds  of  labourers,  Italians,  Swiss,  Austrians,  and  Hun- 
garians, who  were  trooping  from  the  uplands  towards 
the  sea  coast,  laughed  at  the  implication  that  they  were 
fleeing  before  coming  bad  weather. 

"They  have  earned  their  money,"  he  cried,  airily,  and 
shrugging  his  fine  shoulders.  "They  are  going  home  to 
spend  it." 


THE    WIFE   OF  A   GENTLEMAN  333 

"But  I  heard  some  of  the  Swiss  say  that  the  snows 
were  falling  already  in  the  Highlands."  interposed  Rosa- 
mund. 

"What  can  mademoiselle  expect?  It  is  not  always 
summer.  But  a  little  snow  should  not  frighten  the  Eng- 
lish people." 

Mr.  Kerquham  turned  sharply  on  his  niece. 

"Rosamund,  once  and  for  all,  I  tell  you  that  I  will 
brook  no  interference  in  this  matter.  For  some  reason 
of  your  own  you  have  set  your  face  against  this  expedi- 
tion. If  you  are  afraid  to  go  with  me,  say  so  at  once, 
and  I  will  arrange  that  you  return  to  Scotland  while  I 
go  on  by  myself." 

Rosamund  flushed  a  little  at  her  uncle's  words,  but 
she  answered  as  sweetly  and  as  patiently  as  ever: 
"Uncle,  you  know  I  would  not  do  such  a  thing,  and  if  I 
dread  this  journey  it  is  on  your  account,  dear.  I  am  only 
afraid  that  it  will  prove  too  rough  and  uncomfortable 
for  you." 

The  artist  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and  for 
a  moment  looked  quite  his  former  self. 

"Pooh!  my  dear,"  he  cried  with  a  light  laugh. 
"There  is  plenty  of  life  in  me  yet;  you  need  not  be 
afraid  on  my  account." 

That  night,  after  he  had  retired  to  rest,  Rosamund, 
full  of  doubt  and  fearful  of  what  the  future  might  bring 
forth,  slipped  out  of  her  room  again  and  went  down  the 
narrow  stairs  to  the  general  sitting-room,  where  they 
had  all  dined  together.  The  hotel  was  a  very  rough 
one — a  foretaste  of  what  they  were  to  find  further  up 
the  country.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  two  solemn 
Turkish  merchants  were  smoking  their  nargilehs.  A 
Montenegran  gentleman — one  of  the  Prince's  court — with 
rich  embroidery  and  gold  bosses  on  his  red  velvet  gyves, 


334        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

a  spotlessly  white  and  stiffly  kilted  petticoat,  a  vest  of 
scarlet  covered  with  fine  gold  thread,  which  in  its  turn 
was  partly  hidden  by  the  large  silver  butts  of  the  pistols 
thrust  into  his  sash,  was  talking  to  Mr.  Fraser,  who 
in  his  rough  cloth  suit  and  flannel  shirt  looked  peculiarly 
unpicturesque  among  such  surroundings.  At  sight  of 
her  the  two  men  stopped  talking.  The  Montenegran 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  making  a  bow  first  to  Rosamund 
and  then  to  Mr.  Fraser,  left  the  room. 

Rosamund  looked  after  him. 

"What  splendid  fellows  these  are." 

"Yes,"  said  Hugh  Fraser,  "and  very  good  chaps  to 
boot.  I  have  been  having  a  long  talk  with  him.  He  is 
the  Prince's  chamberlain,  and  hears  most  things  that  go 
on  in  these  parts." 

Miss  Keith  laughed  as  she  sat  down  in  the  vacant 
chair  and  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table. 

"Well,  and  what  is  the  local  news?" 

"May  I  smoke?"  asked  Hugh  Fraser  by  way  of 
answer. 

Rosamund  nodded. 

"I  shall  probably  have  to  take  to  doing  it  myself  if 
we  go  very  much  farther  afield.  Some  of  the  inns  we 
have  passed  the  last  day  or  two  did  not  look  very  invit- 
ing." 

Hugh  Fraser  pulled  two  or  three  times  at  his  pipe,  for 
like  all  travellers  he  refused  to  be  bound  down  by  the 
strictures  of  cigar  smoking. 

"Miss  Keith,"  he  began  suddenly,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
the  opposite  wall  and  knitting  his  hands  together  in  a 
way  that  Rosamund  had  learned  to  know  meant  a  certain 
amount  of  embarrassment,  "must  you  go  on  this  jour- 
ney?" 

"You  heard  what  my  uncle  said  this  evening,  Mr. 


THE    WIFE   OF  A    GENTLEMAN  335 

Eraser.  I  have  done  my  best  to  make  him  alter  his  mind, 
but  he  is  not  easy  to  influence  nowadays.  He  suffered  a 
great  grief  last  year — and  he  often — " 

"Oh!  you  are  trying  to  excuse  him,  I  know,  for  his 
whims  and  sharp  words,  but  I  have  not  minded  them. 
He  is  an  older  man  than  I  am,  and,  besides,  every  one 
is  entitled  to  his  own  opinions.  Still  I  don't  like  your 
going  on  this  trip." 

"What  more  can  I  do?"  asked  Rosamund. 

Fraser  smoked  hard  for  a  moment.  Then  he  pulled 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 

"Do  you  think  your  uncle  would  undertake  this  jour- 
ney quite  alone?" 

"I  don't  think  he  would,  although  he  says  that  noth- 
ing would  alter  his  determination." 

"Why  not  try  the  experiment?"  suggested  Fraser. 
"Why  not  tell  him  to-morrow  that  you  absolutely  refuse 
to  go  on?" 

"Oh!  I  could  not  do  that.  I  have  no  reason,"  re- 
turned Rosamund,  clasping  her  slim  white  hands  on  the 
rough  wooden  table,  and  looking  in  Mr.  Fraser's  face 
with  anxious  eyes. 

"Make  me  the  reason,"  said  Hugh  Fraser. 

"You?     I  don't  understand." 

"Yes!  me." 

He  loosed  his  hands  and  slipped  one  across  the  table 
until  his  fingers  lay  close  to  Rosamund's.  "Miss  Keith, 
will  you  marry  me?  Oh!  please  do  not  think  I  am  ask- 
ing you  to  be  my  wife  out  of  any  pity,"  he  added  in  a 
pained  voice  as  he  saw  her  start.  "I  am  not  a  ladies' 
man,  I  know.  I  have  lived  too  rough  a  life  and  been  too 
much  by  myself  to  have  very  fine  manners  or  to  know 
quite  the  kind  of  way  in  which  to  make  up  to  women,  but  I 
have  admired  you  ever  since  that  first  evening  I  saw  you 


336        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

up  at  Zermatt,  and  in  a  very  few  hours  admiration 
changed  into  something  else,  and  ever  since  then  I  have 
only  been  waiting  for  a  chance  of  asking  you  to  be  my 
wife.  The  chance  has  come  now.  You  want  a  reason — 
we  both  want  a  reason — to  stop  this  mad  journey.  Let 
us  go  to  your  uncle  to-morrow  morning  and  tell  him  we 
are  going  to  be  married — in  Vienna,  Paris,  London, 
where  you  will,  so  long  as  we  tan  get  him  to  leave  this 
and  come  west  with  us  at  once." 

From  the  far  corner  Rosamund  heard  the  gentle  gur- 
gle of  the  nargilehs  and  the  murmurous  voices  of  the 
cross-legged  Turks.  From  the  streets  there  seemed  to 
come  no  sounds  at  all.  The  bare  room  faded  away,  the 
walls  melted  into  trees,  and  the  flaring  lamp  into  a  white, 
round  moon.  Again  she  heard  Paul's  voice  in  the  gar- 
den of  "The  Hurst,"  telling  her  that  he  loved  her  and 
would  be  faithful  to  her  forever.  Again  she  felt  the 
pressure  of  his  hands  and  the  touch  of  his  lips  against 
her  cheek  as  he  asked  her  to  marry  him.  How  long  ago 
all  that  seemed!  Life  at  "The  Hurst"  was  like  a  dream, 
and  Paul — Paul,  for  all  she  knew,  was  dead,  or  if  he  were 
alive,  could  not  marry  her.  For  sixteen  months  she  had 
had  no  sign  from  him.  She  did  not  know  whether  he  was 
true  to  her  memory  or  whether  his  heart  still  beat. 

And  then  the  London  garden  faded  away,  and  Paul's 
voice  died  in  the  distance,  and  before  her  lay  an  awful 
range  of  mountain  passes  and  wild  gorges  filled  with  a 
savage  people  or  with  a  solitude  that  was  even  more  ter- 
rible. In  her  ears  there  rang  the  changed  notes  of  her 
uncle's  voice,  the  tones  of  a  man  who  had  lost  the  savour 
of  life,  and  who  only  sought  to  speed  the  few  last  years 
by  perpetual  change  and  a  feverish  desire  of  excitement. 

As  in  a  dream  her  past  and  future  melted  into  the 
present,  the  little  room  in  the  Montenegran  inn  and — 


THE    WIFE   OF  A   GENTLEMAN  337 

Hugh  Fraser.  She  never  for  a  moment  doubted  his  sin- 
cerity, she  never  for  one  second  dreamed  that  he  would 
be  anything  but  a  most  loving  and  true  husband  to  her. 
She  grieved  within  her  own  heart  that  she  could  not  just 
move  her  hand  and  lay  her  fingers  in  his  and  tell  him 
that  she  would  be  his  wife.  It  was  almost  a  prophetic 
instinct  that  made  her  wish  that  she  could  go  away  with 
him  at  once  and  turn  her  back  upon  all  this  mysterious 
wild  East,  and  just  wander  through  the  world  with  his 
broad  shoulders  and  strong  arms  to  keep  trouble  and 
anxiety  from  her.  But  she  could  not  even  formulate  the 
wish  clearly  to  herself,  and  an  invisible  force  locked  her 
hands  within  one  another  so  that  she  could  not  move 
them. 

"Will  you  give  me  your  answer  now,  or  would  you 
rather  wait  till  the  morning?"  asked  Fraser. 

But  Rosamund  feared  what  the  thoughts  and  tempta- 
tions of  the  night  might  be,  so  she  turned  her  soft  eyes 
on  him  and  answered  him: 

"I  thank  you,  Mr.  Fraser,  but  I  cannot  marry  you. 
I  am  not  so  foolish  as  to  believe  that  you  are  merely 
asking  me  to  be  your  wife  out  of  pity.  I  do  not  think 
you  are  the  sort  of  man  who  would  marry  a  woman 
unless  you  really  loved  her,  and  it  is  because  I  feel  sure 
that  you  love  me  that  I  must  say  No.  I  could  not  give 
you  half  of  myself.  My  heart  belongs  already  to  another 
man." 

"And  he?"  whispered  Fraser,  leaning  forward  eagerly. 

Rosamund  shook  her  head. 

"I  do  not  know  where  he  is.  If  he  is  alive  my  heart 
is  in  his  keeping.  If  he  is  dead,  it  is  in  his  grave.  It 
is  not  mine  to  give." 

Hugh  Fraser  struck  a  match  and  lit  his  pipe  again. 

"I  am  sorry,  Miss  Keith,  that  I  have  been  too  late." 


33$        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

They  both  rose  from  the  table  and  walked  across  the 
room  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  There  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Then  to-night  it  is,  I  am  afraid,  'Good-bye.'  ' 

"Good-bye!"  she  cried,  a  sudden  fear  blanching  her 
cheek  and  catching  at  her  heart.  "You  are  going 
to  leave  us?" 

"I  had  a  telegram  to-day  which  forces  me  to  return  to 
England.  I  had  hoped  that  you  would  have  gone  with 
me.  If  before  dawn  you  think  differently,  give  me  a 
sign,  and  I  will  wait  for  you." 

"You  go  at  dawn!" 

"Yes.     But  for  you  I  should  have  gone  to-night." 

She  took  a  voiceless  farewell  of  him,  simply  clasping 
his  big  brown  hand  in  her  two  slender  ones,  and  then 
passing  from  his  sight  up  the  dingy  staircase. 

At  her  uncle's  door  Rosamund  listened.  Mr.  Kerqu- 
ham  was  already  asleep.  The  future  did  not  trouble 
him  at  all.  To-morrow  he  was  going  to  start  for  the 
mountains  and  for  the  life  of  solitude  and  strange  scenes 
which  he  so  much  desired. 

For  an  hour  Rosamund  paced  her  narrow  chamber. 
Never  for  one  moment  did  her  trust  and  faith  in  Paul 
falter,  but  the  physical  fear  that  comes  even  to  the  brav- 
est at  times  was  heavy  upon  her.  She  had  struggled  so 
hard,  to  prevent  this  journey.  She  was  so  sure  in  her 
own  mind  that  the  expedition  could  be  of  no  good,  that 
to  be  forced  to  give  up  the  last  hope  of  escape  from  it 
frightened  her.  It  seemed  as  though  the  hand  of  Fate 
were  dragging  her  somewhere  against  her  will,  as  though 
everything  were  against  her,  and  as  if  she  were  being 
forced  into  some  unknown  land  filled  with  vague  terrors 
and  indefinite  formless  shapes  which  threatened  evil. 

All  the  night  through  she  struggled  with  her  fears, 


THE    WIFE   OF  A   GENTLEMAN  339 

telling  herself  a  thousand  times  that  other  people  had 
travelled  into  wild  countries  without  undue  danger  or 
difficulties.  A  thousand  times,  too,  she  was  tempted  to 
devise  some  signal  by  which  she  could  stay  Mr.  Eraser's 
going  in  the  morning,  but  the  hours  slipped  by  and  the 
black  night  grew  grey,  and  she  was  still  merely  a  fright- 
ened, undecided  girl. 

At  dawn  the  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  street  below  car- 
ried her  with  swift  feet  to  her  window.  He  was  going. 
His  well-worn  portmanteaux  were  flung  across  a  mule's 
back,  his  rugs  and  sticks,  tied  in  a  rough  bundle,  were 
shouldered  by  a  strapping  porter.  A  moment  later  and 
he  himself  walked  out  into  the  roadway,  wearing  the 
rough  iron-shod  boots,  the  shabby  dittoes,  and  the  form- 
less hat  in  which  she  had  first  seen  him.  He  was  smok- 
ing, but  as  the  sun  leaped  over  the  hills  and  flung  its  first 
pale  rays  across  the  plain  he  looked  up  at  the  shuttered 
face  of  the  house.  At  that  moment  Rosamund  would 
have  given  her  soul  to  have  been  able  to  cry  out  to  him 
to  stay  or  to  have  pushed  aside  the  shutter  and  beck- 
oned with  her  hand  to  him;  but  everything  was  dead 
within  her  except  her  eyes,  and  they,  haggard  and  miser- 
able, watched  him,  after  a  moment's  pause,  swing  him- 
self into  the  saddle  and  ride  slowly  down  the  street.  At 
the  corner  he  turned,  and  shading  his  eyes  from  the 
morning  sun,  once  more  looked  back.  As  Rosamund 
almost  found  voice  a  heavy  sob  caught  in  her  throat  and 
a  rush  of  tears  blinded  her  sight.  When  she  had  dashed 
them  away  he  was  gone. 

Too  weary  and  heartsick  even  to  lie  on  the  bed, 
Rosamund  bathed  her  tired  eyes,  and  then  to  pass  the 
hours  till  her  uncle  should  call  her,  opened  the  bundle 
of  letters  and  newspapers  she  had  found  on  her  arrival 
the  previous  day. 


340        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Her  correspondence  was  meagre  and  uninteresting, 
and  the  papers  but  little  better.  But  in  idly  turning  the 
Times  over  in  her  listless  hands  her  attention  was  caught 
by  a  paragraph — and  a  name! 

The  few  lines  stated  that  a  woman  of  the  unfortunate 
class  had  been  knocked  down  and  run  over  in  the  Strand. 
At  the  hospital,  after  her  death,  one  of  her  own  kind  had 
identified  her  by  the  name  of  Kitty  Clyde.  Some  humble 
folk  from  Oxford  had  also  come  to  London  and  claimed 
the  body.  The  woman  had  been  at  one  time  the  wife  of 
a  gentleman  well  known  in  the  best  society,  from  whom 
she  had  been  divorced.  The  gentleman's  name  did  not 
transpire. 

"Good  God!"  cried  Rosamund,  holding  the  paper 
before  her  pale  face  with  hands  that  shook  like  leaves. 
"That  was  the  name  of  Paul's  wife — and  she — is  dead. 
Oh!  heaven  forgive  me  that  I  am  thankful — for  he — he  is 
free.  Paul  is  free  as  air,  and  there  is  now  no  bar  to  our 
marriage." 

The  words  died  on  her  lips,  the  tide  of  living  joy  froze 
in  her  throat,  and  a  great  wail  broke  from  her. 

"Paul!  Paul!  my  beloved — do  you  know  this  thing, 
or  are  you  lost  to  me  forever?  Ah!  God  is  too 
unkind.  He  has  given  you  to  me  so  often,  and  each 
time — each  time  you  have  been  taken  away." 

With  trembling  fingers  she  cut  the  paragraph  from 
the  paper. 

"At  least — at  least — I  have  been  saved  from  one 
great  mistake.  If  I  had  said  Yes  to  Hugh  Fraser  last 
night  and  known  the  truth  too  late,  what  should  I  have 
done?  What  should  I  have  done?  I  think  the  irony  of 
it  would  have  killed  me." 

As  she  grew  calmer  she  fell  on  her  knees  and  prayed 
that  the  bitter  cup  might  in  time  pass  from  her,  and  that 


THE    WIFE   OF  A   GENTLEMAN  341 

some  day — not  too  far  off — she  and  Paul  might  meet 
once  more  as  happy  lovers. 

Her  prayers  were  crossed  at  last  by  her  uncle's  voice 
calling  her  to  his  room. 

She  went  to  him,  thankful  that  the  dim  light  hid  her 
white  face  and  tear-stained  eyes. 

"Were  those  our  horses  come  already?"  asked  Mr. 
Kerquham,  eagerly. 

"No,  uncle.     It  is  Mr.  Fraser,  who  has  gone  away." 

"Well,  I  am  not  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Kerquham.  "He 
was  very  interfering  the  last  few  days,  and  for  some  rea- 
son or  other  did  all  he  could  to  put  you  against  our 
expedition.  But  now,  my  dear,  we  are  all  by  ourselves, 
and  I  will  see  that  lad,  Matia,  this  afternoon  and  arrange 
everything  for  our  start  to-morrow.  Rosamund,  my 
child,  we  are  going  to  have  a  beautiful  journey.  From 
what  people  tell  me,  we  shall  see  the  loveliest  country 
in  the  world  and  places  that  have  not  yet  been  spoilt  by 
men  and  by  civilisation.  We  are  going  to  be  face  to 
face  with  Nature  in  her  wildest  and  grandest  moods. 
As  you  pack,  dear,  see  that  all  my  sketching  things  are 
handy.  I  expect  I  shall  want  them  every  mile  of  the 
road." 

And  Rosamund,  patient  and  quiet,  holding  to  the 
promise  she  had  made  herself  to  be  the  faithful  compan- 
ion of  her  uncle,  passed  the  day  in  packing  and  repack- 
ing their  belongings,  for  as  yet  her  new-found  joy  was 
too  sweetly  sacred  to  be  shared  even  with  her  only  com- 
panion. 

They  were  to  take  merely  the  barest  necessities  with 
them.  Everything  else  was  to  be  sent  on  to  Athens  by 
train. 

Only  once  during  that  day  did  the  mantle  of  forebod- 
ing and  heaviness  drop  from  her.  Matia,  _the  guide, 


342         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

brought  a  string  of  horses  round  to  the  door,  from  which 
his  new  employers  were  to  choose  their  mounts,  and 
Rosamund,  with  her  old  love  for  animals  roused  within 
her,  spent  an  hour  among  them.  They  were  all  small, 
light  of  build,  and  obviously  half-bred  Arabs.  Most  of 
them  were  half-broken,  but  were  young  and  warranted 
sure-footed.  She  was  amused  at  the  way  in  which  they 
were  shod,  with  flat  plates  covering  the  entire  frog  of  the 
hoof  and  strangely  curled  up  nails  set  all  round. 

"That  is  to  give  them  a  good  grip,"  explained  Matia 
in  his  strange  Italian.  "We  have  rough  work  before 
us." 

Rosamund  chose  a  grey  mare  for  her  uncle.  She 
seemed  a  quiet  creature,  with  large  soft  eyes,  and 
nestled  her  head  against  the  girl's  shoulder  in  a  most 
engaging  way.  For  herself  she  chose  a  chestnut  horse, 
a  fine  upstanding  animal,  who  looked  to  have  plenty  of 
pace  in  him  if  he  were  put  to  it.  Some  mules  were  then 
brought,  and  wooden  pack-saddles,  clumsy,  ill-made 
things,  on  which  the  luggage  was  to  be  placed.  A  small 
boy,  who,  according  to  Matia  and  the  innkeeper,  was  a 
Miridite,  but  who  looked  to  Rosamund's  inexperienced 
eyes  a  very  swarthy  gipsy,  was  engaged  to  drive  the 
mules.  This  done,  Mr.  Kerquham  considered  that  he 
had  made  all  necessary  arrangements,  and  it  was  not 
until  Rosamund  asked  him  tentatively  if  he  intended  to 
carry  any  arms  with  him  or  not,  that,  accompanied  by 
Matia,  he  wandered  down  to  the  bazaar  and  invested  in 
an  out-of-date  pair  of  heavy  pistols. 

The  news  that  a  party  of  Europeans  were  going  to 
start  for  the  Albanian  Highlands  the  next  day  had  spread 
through  the  little  town  by  eventide,  and  to  celebrate  the 
event,  as  well  as  to  wring  some  money  out  of  the  travel- 
lers, a  large  party  of  dancers  and  musicians  came  up  to 


THE   WIFE  OF  A  GENTLEMAN  343 

the  inn  in  the  evening.  With  great  formality  the  host, 
a  truculent-looking  gentleman  who  walked  about  his  own 
house  armed  to  the  teeth,  begged  that  the  visitors  would 
patronise  the  entertainment. 

It  was  a  very  cold  evening,  and  Rosamund  wrapped 
both  herself  and  her  uncle  in  heavy  cloaks  before  they 
went  out  on  to  the  terrace,  where  the  dancing  was  to 
take  place.  The  moon  lay  low  on  the  horizon  and  gave 
but  little  light,  but  some  spluttering  lanterns  hung  on 
poles  lent  an  intermittent  illumination  to  the  strange 
scene.  Seats  were  brought  for  the  English  visitors,  the 
rest  of  the  company  either  stood  or  sat  cross-legged  in 
a  ring.  Then  there  flitted  into  the  centre  a  man  and  a 
woman,  who  began  the  national  dance,  with  springs  and 
bounds  and  arms  waved  high  above  their  heads.  As  the 
dance  went  on  they  twisted  their  bodies  when  in  the  air, 
and  when  a  couple  retired  exhausted  another  took  their 
place.  The  exercise  was  certainly  violent,  and  as  a 
gymnastic  entertainment  not  unworthy  of  notice,  but  it 
could  scarcely  be  called  dancing.  Rosamund  was  better 
pleased  with  a  girl  who,  with  her  legs  tucked  under  her, 
began  to  play  the  ghauzla,  a  one-stringed  instrument  not 
unlike  a  mandolin.  Some  of  the  girls  sang  to  it,  and 
the  music  was  plaintive  and  wild,  like  that  of  all  the 
mountainous  countries.  The  native  audience  seemed  so 
in  love  with  it  that  they  stayed  on  the  terrace  half  through 
the  night,  and  long  after  Rosamund  had  lain  down  to 
rest  she  heard  the  wail  of  the  monotonous,  single  string 
and  the  plaintive  voices  which  seemed  to  sing  to  her  of 
Paul. 

The  strange,  sad  music  still  throbbed  in  Rosamund's 
ears  during  the  next  few  days,  as  they  wandered  through 
the  beautiful  Zeta  valley,  past  old  monasteries  and  ruined 
forts,  and  by  quaint  villages,  where  Matia  and  the  boy 


344        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

cooked  the  food  they  had  brought  with  them  in  the 
khans  by  the  roadside.  It  beat  in  time  to  the  horses' 
hoofs  as  they  clattered  over  the  rough  highways  and 
narrow  wooden  bridges.  It  seemed  to  echo  back  at  her 
from  the  sides  of  the  lofty  Dormitor,  and  to  wander  with 
the  wind  through  the  forests  of  beech  which  were  now  a 
blaze  of  gold  and  crimson  and  were  casting  about  their 
feet  a  brilliant  carpet.  It  seemed  to  echo  the  mingled 
joy  and  passion  in  her  heart  when  they  passed  whole 
families  by  the  roadside,  shaking  with  the  malaria  and 
the  agues  that  in  the  autumn  months  sap  the  health  of 
the  dwellers  in  the  valleys  and  plains.  She  hummed 
snatches  of  the  strange  tunes  while  she  ate  the  black, 
gritty  bread  they  bought  in  the  villages,  or  made  believe, 
to  please  her  uncle,  that  she  enjoyed  the  sour  jam  called 
bestilj. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

THE   GANDER  FIGHT 

THE  progress  of  the  little  caravan  proved  to  be  a  very 
slow  one,  for  Mr.  Kerquham,  on  the  plea  of  lingering 
among  the  gorgeous  valleys  that  lay  between  the  spurs 
of  the  Albanian  Alps,  never  rode  many  miles  a  day. 
Only  Rosamund,  who  knew  every  tone  of  his  voice  and 
expression  of  his  face,  was  fearful  that  it  was  fatigue 
that  made  him,  after  a  few  hours,  dismount  from  his 
high-peaked  saddle  and  seek  the  shelter  of  some  squalid 
wayside  khan.  But  he  had  all  the  obstinacy  of  a  man 
who  knows  his  health  is  failing,  and  only  answered  her 
tender  inquiries  with  assurances  that  he  was  quite  well. 

Day  by  day  the  stages  that  they  travelled  grew 
shorter,  and  day  by  day,  although  the  sky  was  clear  and 
the  sun  shone  brilliantly,  the  winds  that  blew  down  the 
valleys  grew  more  keen  and  the  evening  hours  brought 
with  them  a  touch  of  sharp  frost.  When  they  started  at 
dawn  Matia  would  shiver  and  utter  strange  oaths  between 
his  chattering  teeth,  and  tie  the  ends  of  the  red  shawl 
that  bound  his  brows  under  his  chin.  Still  Mr.  Kerqu- 
ham persisted  that  no  snow  ever  fell,  even  in  the  highest 
passes,  until  the  beginning  of  the  new  year,  and  that 
long  before  that  they  would  be  basking  amid  the  olive 
groves  of  Greece. 

For  several  days  they  had  travelled  amid  the  wildest 
and  most  lonely  scenery.  All  verdure  was  left  behind 
them  long  ago,  and  they  seemed  to  be  locked  in  an  end- 

345 


346        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

less  valley  formed  of  giant  rocks  and  frowning  crags, 
where  only  here  and  there  a  hardy  pine  tree  had  thrust 
its  roots  into  some  little  cranny  and  found  sustenance 
for  its  funereal  foliage  in  the  scant  earth.  A  stream 
tumbled  far  below  the  road.  Its  waters  were  thick  and 
bluish.  Rosamund  looked  down  at  it  one  morning  as 
they  rode  and  said  to  her  uncle: 

"There  must  have  been  snow  somewhere,  uncle. 
That  is  snow  water  surely." 

Matia,  when  he  was  questioned,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  said  in  his  bad  Italian  that  possibly  the  signorina 
was  right. 

That  day  there  was  a  new  sensation  in  the  air.  It 
was  sharp  and  keen  and  almost  cut  the  skin  as  it  whipped 
across  their  faces.  Mr.  Kerquham  was  not  in  his  usual 
bright  spirits,  although  he  would  not  acknowledge  any 
illness  to  Rosamund.  She  begged  him  hard  to  stop  and 
rest  at  the  small  khans,  which  in  this  lonely  part  of  the 
country  were  merely  little  caves  built  of  loose  stones 
rolled  one  upon  the  other,  but  the  guide  urged  him  to 
go  on.  There  was  a  village,  he  said,  higher  up  the 
gorge,  called  Rosega.  They  might  rest  there  for  a  day 
or  two  if  they  pleased,  and  the  beasts  could  get  some 
fresh  food,  and  they  might  all  be  warmed  and  better  fed. 
Rosamund  joined  her  entreaties  to  his,  and  early  in  the 
afternoon  they  rounded  a  sharp  spur  in  the  valley  and  saw 
above  them  a  tiny  village — a  mere  handful  of  mud  huts 
clustered  close  about  a  whitewashed  mosque  and  tucked 
into  the  hollow  of  the  mountain  side.  To  Rosamund's 
surprise,  the  narrow  road  that  lay  between  them  and  Ro- 
sega was  dotted  with  various  groups  of  hurrying  people. 

"What  is  going  on?"  she  asked  Matia.  "Where  do 
all  these  people  come  from,  and  why  are  they  running 
towards  the  village?" 


THE  GANDER  FIGHT  347 

Matia  grinned  until  he  showed  all  his  white  teeth. 

"There  is  a  great  feast  at  Rosega  to-night.  They 
are  going  to  have  a  Gander  Fight,  and  the  people  have 
come  down  from  the  hills  to  see  it." 

"But  how  do  you  know?"  said  Rosamund. 

Matia  looked  at  her  with  his  fine  eyes  half  closed  in  a 
scornful  way. 

"The  signorina  did  not  notice  me  speak  to  one  who 
passed  us  on  the  way  this  morning.  He  was  the  herald 
sent  out  to  warn  the  countryside  of  the  fight  that  is 
going  to  take  place  this  afternoon." 

Rosamund,  as  she  urged  her  weary  horse  up  the  steep 
slope,  remembered  that  some  hours  back  a  rough  fellow 
had  passed  them  and  had  exchanged  a  nod  and  word 
with  Matia  as  he  went  by.  That  was  the  reason  evi- 
dently that  the,  guide  was  so  anxious  to  reach  the  village 
quickly. 

But  she,  too,  would  be  glad  to  be  once  more  amongst 
people,  even  if  it  were  the  unwashed  natives,  for  the 
loneliness  of  the  great  mountains  and  the  awful  silence 
that  had  wrapped  her  round  for  days  past  were  weighing 
heavily  on  her  nerves  and  spirits.  Yet  as  they  forced 
their  horses  among  the  filthy,  ragged  crowd  that  thronged 
the  narrow  streets  of  Rosega,  she  repented  that  they  had 
come.  Where  could  they  rest  that  night?  The  squalor 
and  dirt  were  something  unspeakable,  and  she  grew  faint 
and  sick  when  Matia  drew  up  before  the  principal  khan 
of  the  place,  and  helping  her  down,  showed  her  into  the 
room  where  they  would  have  to  eat  and  pass  the  evening. 
At  least,  out  on  the  solitary  hillside,  where  there  were 
but  few  people  save  the  shepherds,  the  lodgings  they 
had  had,  though  rough,  had  been  cleaner  than  this.  She 
was  for  mounting  her  weary  horse  again  and  pressing  on, 
but  a  glance  at  her  uncle's  face,  which  was  paler  than 


348        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

its  wont,  was  enough.  At  all  costs  they  must  rest  there 
that  night,  so  once  more  she  helped  Matia  to  unstrap  the 
bedding  from  the  wooden  pack-saddles  and  arrange  the 
wraps  and  pillows  they  had  with  them. 

She  was  so  busy  in  settling  their  belongings  for  her 
uncle's  comfort  that  she  did  not  notice  a  large  crowd 
gathering  in  the  open  space  before  the  khan.  When  at 
last  her  ears  and  her  sense  of  smell  made  her  realise  the 
fact,  she  turned  to  Matia: 

"What  are  they  going  to  do?  Why  is  there  such  a 
crowd?" 

"It  is  the  Gander  Fight!"  cried  the  guide.  "It  takes 
place  here;  come  and  see,  signorina;  come  and  see!" 

Against  her  will,  he  seized  her  by  the  arm  and 
dragged  her  through  the  evil-smelling  crowd,  which, 
with  a  certain  rough  politeness,  made  way  for  her,  and 
led  her  into  the  front  row  of  spectators.  A  space  had 
been  cleared,  and  round  it  were  grouped  a  ring  of  men 
and  women.  The  latter  were  born  Mohammedans,  but 
under  the  plea  of  having  become  Christians,  they  had 
cast  aside  their  veils  and  mingled  freely  with  the  men. 
The  first  two  or  three  rows  of  spectators  were  crouched 
on  their  knees.  Behind  them  stood,  ten  deep,  an  excited 
throng.  Many  of  the  men  wore  the  soft,  spotless  white 
skirts  of  the  country;  others  had  the  tight,  close-fitting 
trousers  of  the  true  mountaineers.  The  Mussulmans 
had  the  loose,  ungraceful  costume  of  the  Turk,  but  the 
fez  was  universal,  and  every  man  was  engirdled  with  a 
whole  armoury  of  pistols  and  swords. 

Amid  cries  of  exultation  and  excitement,  the  ganders — 
two  fine  birds  which  had  been  trained  to  their  work  and 
fed  for  some  weeks  on  a  particular  herb  to  render  them 
fierce  and  pugnacious — were  brought  into  the  circle.  The 
owners  of  the  creatures  gesticulated  wildly  to  one 


THE  GANDER  FIGHT  349 

another,  and  Rosamund  guessed  that  they  were  wagering 
on  their  chances  of  success.  Then,  urged  on  by  cries, 
the  two  birds  began  to  fight.  After  a  few  moments 
Rosamund  shut  her  eyes,  for  she  could  not  force  her 
way  back  through  the  crowd  that  pressed  so  closely  be- 
hind her.  She  wished  that  Providence  would  close  her 
ears  too,  for  by  the  shouts  and  yells,  the  shrieks  of  anger 
and  the  clamour  of  encouragement,  she  could  gather 
how  the  battle  was  going. 

High  above  the  general  din  rang  the  shrill  peal  of  a 
girl's  laugh.  She  was  next  to  Rosamund,  who  had 
noticed  her  for  her  fair  beauty,  her  glorious  eyes  and 
scarlet  mouth.  Between  her  bursts  of  laughter,  Rosa- 
mund could  hear  her  in  a  sneering  tone  speaking  to  those 
behind  her,  and  her  instinct  warned  her  that  this  wild 
daughter  of  the  mountains  was  laughing  at  the  ultra- 
refinement  of  the  English  woman,  who,  for  all  the 
vaunted  bravery  of  her  race,  turned  pale  at  the  sight  of 
blood. 

For  what  seemed  a  lifetime  the  riot  and  noise  and 
excitement  endured.  She  found  afterwards  that  two 
hours  had  passed  before  one  bird  had  so  completely 
vanquished  the  other  that  there  was  neither  pluck  nor 
struggle  left  in  him.  When  Matia  touched  her  arm  and 
told  her  that  it  was  all  over,  she  staggered  to  her  feet 
stiffly,  for  she  had  become  cramped  crouched  down  upon 
her  knees.  She  gave  one  hurried  glance  towards  the 
spot  where  the  fight  had  been.  It  was  strewn  with  feath- 
ers and  blood,  and  a  wretched  carcass,  that  once  had 
been  a  bird  but  was  now  a  mere  mass  of  bleeding  flesh, 
lay  upon  the  ground.  A  fight  between  two  men  was 
going  on  at  the  further  corner,  and  she  hurried  into  the 
khan  so  that  the  sound  of  blows  and  angry  words  should 
not  reach  her. 


350        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

She  found  her  uncle  standing  at  the  door  lighting  his 
pipe.  Matia  then  built  the  fire,  and  leaving  it  to  burn 
went  out  into  the  village  to  see  what  he  could  get  to 
eat.  A  moment  later  he  returned,  preceded  by  a  tall, 
handsome  man,  splendidly  dressed  in  the  national  cos- 
tume. 

"It  is  the  Agha — a  great  man  in  Rosega, "  whispered 
Matia  in  Rosamund's  ear.  "He  has  come  to  bid  you 
sup  with  him  to-night." 

It  suited  Matia  that  the  invitation  should  be  accepted 
by  the  English  travellers,  for  it  meant  that  he,  too, 
would  be  treated  as  a  guest  in  his  capacity  of  interpreter. 

The  Agha  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  khan,  while  his 
.invitation  was  translated  and  accepted.  He  dropped  his 
hand  to  his  knee,  as  though  he  were  raising  the  hem  of  a 
garment,  then  raised  it  to  his  chest,  his  mouth  and  his 
forehead.  It  was  the  gesture  of  greeting  and  respect  of 
the  country,  and  infinitely  picturesque  and  suggestive. 
Then  the  great  Boluk-Bashi  swung  out  of  the  khan  and 
took  his  gorgeously  apparelled  form  up  the  road  to  his 
own  quaint  home,  where  a  feast  in  honour  of  the  stran- 
gers was  being  organised. 

"It  will  be  dark  before  they  eat,"  said  Matia.  "Will 
not  the  signorina  go  down  to  the  well  and  see  the  women 
drawing  water?  The  sun  will  be  set  in  half  an  hour." 

Anxious  to  get  away  from  the  horrible  lodging  and  to 
breathe  again  a  little  pure  air,  Rosamund  gladly  went 
outside,  and  following  the  main  road  soon  reached  the 
rough  mud  wall  and  heavy  wooden  gate  that  formed 
the  boundary  of  the  town.  After  the  noise  and  bustle 
that  had  accompanied  the  Gander  Fight  it  soothed  her  to 
find  the  streets  so  quiet. 

Only  one  figure  broke  the  solitude,  that  of  an  old 
man,  white-locked  and  bearded.  He  wore  the  close-fit- 


THE   GANDER  FIGHT  351 

ting  Miridite  costume,  and  was  crouched  on  a  low  stone 
with  a  long-barrelled  Martini-Peabody  rifle  laid  across  his 
knees. 

Rosamund  thought  he  was  a  guard  set  at  the  gate, 
till  she  saw  him  with  a  savage  growl  spring  to  his  feet. 
The  door  of  a  house  a  little  larger  and  cleaner  than  the 
rest  had  been  flung  wide,  and  a  man  whom  she  recog- 
nised as  the  Agha  appeared  in  the  centre  of  a  crowd  of 
young  men  and  children.  They  were  closely  followed 
by  half  a  dozen  Turkish  zaptiehs. 

The  old  man  sank  down  on  the  stone  as  with  flashing 
eyes  and  haughty  mien  the  cavalcade  swept  past. 

Matia's  laugh  sounded  in  Rosamund's  ears. 

"He's  clever — is  the  Agha.  He  and  the  old  one  there 
started  a  blood  feud  at  'Ramazin'  five  year  ago.  Grey- 
beard has  sat  at  his  gates  ever  since,  but  the  Agha  never 
goes  out  alone,  and  has  besides  asked  for  a  guard  from 
the  State.  But,  signorina,  here  come  the  women  from  the 
well." 

A  score  of  women  were  coming  through  the  gate. 
Those  who  were  in  their  first  youth  were  surpassingly 
beautiful,  with  exquisite  white  skins  and  golden  hair  that 
fell  in  long  plaits  to  their  knees.  Their  forms  were  lithe 
and  supple,  and  their  natural  grace  was  in  no  way  hidden 
by  the  loose  trousers  and  short  embroidered  jackets  that 
they  wore.  The  more  coquettish  of  the  girls  had  bound 
their  sashes  so  closely  round  their  forms  that  they  looked 
as  slender  as  sylphs.  Each  carried  on  her  head  a  metal 
water  pot,  which  glittered  in  the  last  rays  of  the  sinking 
sun. 

Chief  among  them  was  the  girl  who  had  been  next  her 
at  the  Gander  Fight.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  deep  blue,  and 
her  hair  was  thick  and  long.  Her  dress  was  of  richer 
material  than  was  that  of  her  companions,  and  of  finer 


35 2         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND   KEITH 

colour.  Heavy  bracelets  of  gold  jangled  on  her  slender 
wrists  as  she  swung  the  pot  from  her  head  to  the  well's 
side,  and  the  long,  loose  coat  that  she  wore  was  held 
together  across  her  bosom  by  two  huge  bosses  of  gold 
set  with  uncut  turquoises.  Rosamund  heard  the  others 
call  her  Kitza,  and  noticed  that  they  all  paid  her  some 
deference.  She  was  evidently  an  aristocrat  among  these 
poverty-stricken  villagers. 

As  Rosamund  went  through  the  gloom  back  to  the 
village  and  the  khan  she  passed  Matia,  the  guide.  He 
was  holding  close  converse  with  two  dark  men  whose 
head  shawls  were  dragged  so  closely  about  their  mouths 
that  the  lower  parts  of  their  faces  could  not  be  seen. 
They  were  more  than  common  tall,  and  singularly 
swarthy  when  contrasted  with  the  fair  Albanians  of  the 
Highlands.  They  were  speaking,  too,  in  a  language  she 
had  never  heard  before.  She  would  scarcely  have 
noticed  them,  perhaps,  save  that  as  she  approached, 
Matia  laid  his  hands  upon  his  lips,  and  the  two  men 
slipped  back  among  the  bushes.  She  thought  no  more 
of  it,  however,  for,  arrived  at  the  khan,  she  found  her 
uncle  awaiting  her  impatiently,  and  Matia,  who  had 
somehow  arrived  there  before  her,  urged  an  immediate 
start  for  the  Agha's  house. 

A  fire  made  from  small  trees  gave  them  a  warm  wel- 
come. It  leaped  from  the  centre  of  the  floor  and  flared 
ruddily  almost  up  to  the  low  ceiling.  In  honour  of  the 
strangers'  visit,  the  Agha  had  donned  fresh  clothes. 
A  small  fez  decked  with  an  enormous  blue  silk  tassel  cov- 
ered that  part  of  his  head  which  was  shaved.  The  rest 
of  his  hair  was  cut  very  close.  Instead  of  his  full  kilt, 
he  wore  tight-fitting  trousers,  seamed  with  heavy  stripes 
of  gold  lace.  His  waistcoat  of  crimson  velvet  was  com- 


THE   GANDER  FIGHT  353 

pletely  covered  with  gold  embroidery  and  rows  of  finely 
wrought  buttons.  The  short  jacket  was  also  stiff  with 
needlework,  and  the  jack  boots,  which  reached  to  his 
knees,  were  covered  with  a  fantastic  design  of  gold  and 
silver  wire.  He  had  laid  aside  his  yatakhan,  but  the 
three  heavy  pistols  he  wore  in  his  crimson  sash  had  butts 
of  sparkling  silver. 

He  welcomed  his  guests  with  considerable  grace,  and 
led  them  to  a  low  wooden  stool,  which,  so  far  as  Rosa- 
mund could  see  by  the  fitful  firelight,  was  the  only  furni- 
ture in 'the  large  room.  Directly  they  were  placed 
several  stalwart  men  entered,  bearing  on  a  huge  spit  a 
newly-killed  sheep,  which  was  set  above  the  fire  to  roast. 
.Matia  at  the  sight  beamed  with  delight,  for  a  sheep 
roasted  whole  is  the  greatest  honour  that  an  Albanian 
mountain  chief  can  show  to  his  guests.  Of  plates  and 
knives  and  forks  the  feast  was  innocent,  but  Rosamund 
was  hungry,  and  to  her  own  astonishment  was  able  to 
eat  with  a  certain  amount  of  enjoyment  the  pieces  of 
meat  which  the  Agha  offered  her  from  time  to  time. 
Some  cakes  steeped  in  honey  and  a  dish  of  sheep's  kid- 
neys were  the  next  delicacies.  The  wine  was  home- 
made, and  tasted  faintly  of  pears.  The  men  drank  from 
a  big  gourd  filled  with  fiery  rakiy  which  was  passed  round 
from  time  to  time. 

When  her  appetite  failed  her,  she  noticed  in  the 
shadows  that  the  women  of  the  house  sat  in  the  far  cor- 
ner spinning  yarn  and  talking  and  whispering  among 
themselves.  The  yellow-haired  Kitza  was  there,  and 
seemed  to  find  infinite  amusement  in  the  English  girl's 
endeavours  to  conform  with  the  local  customs.  By-and- 
bye  the  mountaineers  took  to  telling  fortunes  among 
themselves  from  a  blade  bone  of  the  sheep.  They  had 


354        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

picked  it  clean  and  white,  and  held  it  between  their  faces 
and  the  brilliant  firelight  and  read  coming  events  in  the 
transparent  edges  of  the  bone.  The  feast  lasted  till  mid- 
night, when  in  dense  cold  Mr.  Kerquham  and  Rosamund 
took  leave  of  their  host  and,  accompanied  by  a  band  of 
cheery  mountaineers,  swinging  lanterns  and  chanting  a 
chorus,  went  back  to  their  khan.  Matia  was  left  behind, 
for  the  sheep  was  not  yet  finished,  and  there  was  plenty 
more  eating  and  drinking  to  be  done.  Mr.  Kerquham 
was  delighted  with  the  evening's  entertainment,  and  a 
thousand  times  went  over  and  over  every  picturesque 
detail  and  fresh  touch  of  colour  to  Rosamund. 

"Did  I  not  say  you  should  see  something  new?"  he 
cried,  exultingly,  as  she  covered  him  with  rugs.  "Are 
not  these  simple,  wild  people,  with  their  primitive  habits 
and  unaffected  natural  ways,  far  preferable  to  the  toilers 
in  cities,  who  scheme  and  plot  all  the  time  to  make  what 
they  can  out  of  you,  to  rob  you  and  to  back-bite  you? 
Ah!  my  dear  child,  I  shall  make  you  acknowledge  before 
we  have  finished  that  I  did  well  to  be  so  firm  in  fighting 
your  wishes  to  give  up  this  expedition.  As  to  Mr. 
Fraser,  his  objections  were  absurd.  What  does  a  little 
cold  matter?  We  have  plenty  of  good  wraps  and  the 
weather  remains  fair." 

Then  he  gave  her  his  blessing  and  turned  over  to 
sleep,  but  Rosamund  sat  in  the  doorway  of  the  khan  and 
looked  up  at  the  clear  frosty  sky,  where  the  stars  were 
dancing  like  Kitza's  eyes,  and  wearily  wondered  how 
soon  this  journey  would  come  to  an  end,  and  where  Paul 
was,  and  why  Matia  had  been  talking  to  those  strange, 
evil-looking  men  who  had  slunk  away  so  guiltily  as  she 
had  passed  them. 

The  whole  valley  was  asleep,  for  even  at  the  Agha's 


THE  GANDER  FIGHT  355 

house  they  were  gorged  with  mutton  and  ra&i,  and  snored 
round  the  fire  beneath  their  blankets.  The  deadly 
silence  of  the  clear  night  was  only  broken  by  the  wild 
howling  of  the  savage  dogs  that  were  held  by  strong 
chains  before  every  house.  They  cried  like  wolves,  and 
now  and  again  Rosamund  fancied  that  she  heard  on  the 
night  wind  an  answering  howl  from  the  far  mountain 
sides. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

FALLEN  AMONG  THIEVES 

THE  start  was  not  early  the  next  morning,  and  the  guide, 
when  he  did  make  his  appearance,  looked  puffy  about  the 
eyes,  and  was  most  unnecessarily  fussy  and  apologetic  in 
manner,  but  Mr.  Kerquham  had  rested  well,  and  Rosa- 
mund prepared  for  the  day's  journey  with  a  light  heart. 
At  the  distant  head  of  the  gorge  a  great  grey  mass  had 
risen  since  early  morning,  and  lay  there  heavy  and  solid 
as  a  rampart  wall. 

"Surely  there  were  no  mountains  there,"  said  Rosa- 
mund, staring  up  at  the  new  appearance  from  under  her 
hand. 

"It  is  a  cloud,"  volunteered  the  native  boy  who  drove 
the  mules  and  to  whom  she  had  learned  to  speak  a  little. 

He  was  going  to  add  something  more  to  his  words, 
but  Matia  took  him  by  the  shoulder  and  flung  him  across 
the  road,  muttering  something  under  his  breath  about 
interfering  children. 

"Is  not  the  weather  going  to  change,  Matia?"  asked 
Rosamund,  thinking  in  her  heart  that  if  it  were  they  had 
better  stop  in  this  little  squalid  village  than  venture  forth 
again  among  the  mountains. 

Matia  shrugged  his  shoulders  airily,  and  assured  the 
signorina  that  it  was  nothing  but  the  morning  mist. 

"I  have  never  seen  it  look  like  that  before,"  she  said, 
still  doubting  his  assurance. 

"Things  look  different  in 'the  mountains,"  was  his 
356 


FALLEN  AMONG    THIEVES  357 

curt  reply,  as  he  helped  Mr.  Kerquham  into  his  saddle, 
and  the  cavalcade  started  out  of  the  village. 

The  ascent  began  the  moment  that  they  left  the  last 
of  the  huts  behind  them.  The  air  was  very  crisp  and 
sharp,  and  the  fern  in  the  hollows,  which  all  the  way  up 
had  been  looking  green  and  fresh,  was  curled  and  brown 
at  the  edges,  as  though  frost  fingers  had  touched  it. 

Within  the  first  hour  they  came  upon  some  shepherds, 
wild  men  of  the  mountains,  all  heavily  armed  and  shod 
in  rough  goatskin  boots,  driving  before  them  their  flocks. 
They  pulled  up  by  the  roadside  as  they  met  the  little 
party  coming  up,  and  one  of  them  stopped  Matia  and 
said  something  to  him,  but  the  guide  laughed  in  his 
frank,  careless  way,  and  urged  on  the  horses.  Rosa- 
mund, however,  noticed  that  the  boy  hung  back  and 
spoke  some  minutes  with  the  shepherds,  and  only  came 
trailing  reluctantly  at  the  heels  of  his  mules  when  Matia 
yelled  to  him. 

"What  did  they  say?"  said  Rosamund  in  her  imper- 
fect language  to  the  muleteer. 

The  lad  shook  his  tangled  head  and  pointed  with  a 
bare  brown  arm  towards  the  head  of  the  gorge. 

"Cold,  very  cold,"  he  muttered,  "the  snows  are  com- 
ing." 

Matia  must  have  guessed  the  purport  of  the  few 
words,  for  when  Rosamund  rode  on  and  tried  to  over- 
take Mr.  Kerquham,  who  was  in  front,  the  guide  inter- 
posed himself  between  the  uncle  and  niece  and  effectually 
prevented  her  from  uttering  her  renewed  fears  aloud. 

The  gradient  now  became  exceedingly  steep,  and  the 
horses  scrambled  like  cats  and  the  mules  struggled  along 
the  loose  stones  in  the  sharp  ascent.  The  tumbling 
river  below  them  was  voiceless,  for  they  were  too  far 
above  it  to  catch  the  sound  of  the  rush  and  boil  of  the 


358        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

waters.  They  seemed  all  alone  in  the  world,  those  four. 
There  was  not  a  bird  in  the  sky  or  the  tinkle  of  a  sheep 
bell  anywhere.  Huge  pinnacles  of  rock  reared  their 
stern  heads  into  the  air  or  leaned  over  from  beetling  crags 
as  though  the  next  moment  they  would  crash  into  the  val- 
ley beneath.  All  around  them  vegetation  had  ceased, 
though  some  distance  off  Rosamund's  keen  eyes  caught 
the  black  stain  of  a  patch  of  pine  trees  against  the  uni- 
versal greyness.  Among  themselves  they  scarcely 
exchanged  a  word,  and  the  beat  of  the  horses'  feet  and 
the  rattle  of  the  loosened  stones  falling  into  the  valley 
by-and-bye  grew  so  monotonous  that  Rosamund  could 
have  screamed,  if  only  to  make  fresh  echoes.  Once  she 
fancied  that  she  heard,  a  long  way  off,  the  same  long- 
drawn  howl  that  had  answered  the  barking  dogs  during 
the  night.  It  thrilled  her  with  a  sense  of  vague  fear, 
and  she  cried  out  to  Matia,  "What  is  that?" 

"A  shepherd's  dog,"  he  answered  back  over  his 
shoulder.  "The  signorina  need  not  mind  that." 

But  the  native  boy  turned  a  shade  paler  under  his 
brown  skin,  and  muttered  beneath  his  breath,  just  loud 
enough  for  her  to  hear: 

"It  is  the  wolves.     They  smell  the  snow." 

It  was  impossible  to  count  the  time,  and  it  may  have 
been  a  few  minutes  after  that  or  half  an  hour,  when  with 
a  sudden  cry  Matia  flung  himself  down  in  the  roadway. 
Rosamund,  feeling  sure  the  man  was  hurt,  sprang  from 
her  saddle  and  rushed  to  his  side.  He  was  writhing 
pitifully  and  holding  his  hands  across  his  body. 

"Oh!  I  am  ill;  I  am  ill!  Those  dogs  have  poisoned 
me.  I  shall  die." 

He  groaned  and  wept  with  all  the  exaggerated  emo- 
tion of  a  Southerner,  and  Rosamund,  certain  that  some- 
thing was  amiss,  drew  her  flask  of  brandy  from  her 


FALLEN  AMONG   THIEVES  359 

pocket  and  poured  some  between  the  man's  clenched 
teeth. 

"Are  you  better?"  she  cried,  anxiously,  while  Mr. 
Kerquham  ,  too,  reined  his  horse  round  and  looked  with 
pitying  eyes  at  the  wriggling  form  before  him. 

"I  don't  know.  I  feel  very  bad,"  and  he  howled  and 
groaned  aloud. 

"See,"  said  Rosamund,  taking  a  sudden  resolution. 
"I  will  put  you  on  my  horse.  I  can  walk,  and  we  will  go 
down  again  to  Rosega. " 

But  at  that  Matia  sat  up  in  the  road,  and  still  moan- 
ing and  mopping  his  brow  vowed  that  he  would  not  give 
the  signorina  such  trouble,  and  it  would  be  a  pity  if  they 
had  had  the  journey  in  vain. 

"I  am  better,"  he  said,  dragging  himself  painfully  to 
his  feet.  "I  can  go  on." 

"But  if  you  are  in  such  pain  it  is  impossible  that  you 
should  goon,"  said  Rosamund,  catching  at  a  straw  of 
hope  that  this  misfortune  might  induce  her  uncle  to 
abandon  the  journey,  at  least  for  the  moment.  "We  can 
go  down  at  once.  You  might  be  taken  ill  on  the  road 
higher  up,  and  then  what  should  we  do?" 

Matia,  with  his  slender,  graceful  body  ostentatiously 
bent  in  half,  caught  hold  of  Mr.  Kerquham's  reins  and 
turned  the  horses  up  the  gorge  once  more. 

"I  promised  that  I  would  see  you  to  the  end  of  your 
journey.  Matia  is  not  a  man  who  goes  against  his 
word,"  and  without  more  ado  he  resumed  the  march. 

Rosamund  stood  in  the  road  staring  at  him,  and  with 
a  vague  doubt  forming  in  her  mind.  Surely  he  was  not 
shamming  illness — nobody  could  look  so  pale  and  utter 
such  fearful  cries  unless  he  was  suffering  terribly,  and 
yet  now  he  was  walking  as  well  as  before  the  seizure. 
The  cure  was  as  sudden  as  the  attack  had  been  Any 


360        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

way,  Mr.  Kerquham  was  almost  out  of  sight  round  a 
turn  in  the  ever-winding  road,  so  she  sprang  into  her 
saddle  again  and  urged  her  horse  on. 

But  the  few  moments  that  she  had  lost  in  thought  had 
taken  the  front  part  of  the  cavalcade  beyond  her  vision, 
round  a  sharp  rock  which  overhung  the  valley  like  a 
citadel  built  by  human  hands.  As  she,  with  the  little 
muleteer  and  his  patient  beasts  behind  her,  turned  the 
corner  she  was  astonished  to  see  Matia  and  her  uncle 
pulled  up  in  the  midst  of  a  small  gipsy  encampment.  A 
little  clump  of  pines  grew  back  from  the  road  and  gave 
some  slight  shelter  from  the  piercing  north  wind  which 
swept  down  the  gorge.  There  was  some  bracken,  too, 
and  among  it  sat  the  ox-eyed,  black-haired  Romany 
women,  with  their  babies  tied  to  their  backs  and  their 
brows  and  bosoms  covered  with  gay  coloured  handker- 
chiefs. Mr.  Kerquham  waved  joyously  to  her.  He  was 
off  his  horse  and  was  sitting  on  a  bundle  of  cut  ferns. 
A  freshly  lit  fire  was  spluttering  and  crackling  in  the 
brisk  wind.  It  all  looked  so  cheerful  after  the  frightful 
loneliness  that  Rosamund  felt  her  heart  leap  with  joy. 

"Come,  my  dear!"  said  her  uncle,  as  she  pulled  up 
her  horse.  "These  good  people  have  asked  us  to  stop 
and  eat  with  them,  and  Matia  is  ill  again,  so  we  must 
stay  here  for  a  bit." 

Nothing  loth,  the  girl  slipped  from  the  saddle.  She 
was  stiff  and  sore  and  cold,  and  glad  to  cower  near  the 
fire  and  watch  the  women  making  broth  in  a  big  iron  pot. 

Presently,  when  they  had  eaten  of  the  savoury  stew, 
she  heard  the  wail  of  a  sick  baby  just  behind  her,  and 
turning,  saw  a  pretty  young  girl,  evidently  in  weak 
health,  trying  to  hush  a  little  black-polled,  swarthy- 
skinned  infant  to  sleep.  But  the  more  the  girl  crooned 
and  rocked  it,  the  more  the  child  screamed  and  kicked. 


FALLEN  AMONG   THIEVES  361 

"Let  me  take  it,"  said  Rosamund  in  English.  Then 
remembering  that  the  gipsy  could  not  understand,  she 
merely  held  out  her  hands,  and  the  girl,  after  one  glance 
into  her  face,  gave  her  the  child  and  sank  wearily  into 
the  bracken. 

Rosamund  quickly  lulled  the  child  to  sleep,  and  after 
exchanging  a  few  words  with  her  uncle,  who  was  smoking 
peaceably,  she  stepped  into  the  road  and  wandered  a 
few  yards  from  the  encampment.  She  was  looking  with 
troubled  eyes  at  that  great  grey  wall  that  stretched 
across  the  head  of  the  gorge  and  seemed  to  bridge  moun- 
tain peak  with  mountain  peak.  She  was  trying  to  think 
if  it  had  grown  thicker  and  higher  since  the  morning, 
when  her  keen  ear  caught  the  sibilant  tones  that  she  had 
overheard  yesterday  afternoon  by  the  well  at  Rosega. 
She  drew  back  a  moment  into  the  bracken.  The  child 
was  asleep  on  her  breast  and  would  not  betray  her.  Yes, 
they  were  the  same  voices — the  voices  of  the  two  dark 
men  who  had  long,  lank  black  hair  and  their  mouths  hid- 
den with  their  turban  shawls,  and  those  were  Matia's 
lighter  tones,  hissing  and  soft  and  treacherous  as  the 
sound  of  a  snake.  They  were  whispering  fast  to  one 
another,  and  then  Matia  laughed  a  low  laugh  that  drove 
the  blood  back  cold  to  Rosamund's  heart. 

Although  she  could  guess  nothing  of  what  they  said, 
her  instinct  warned  her  that  something  was  wrong. 

Indeed,  things  were  wrong,  for  when  a  few  minutes 
later  her  hurrying  footsteps  carried  her  back  to  the  camp 
she  found  the  tents  struck  and  the  pack  horses  laden 
with  the  gipsies'  scant  property  and  all  ready  to  start, 
save  Matia,  who  once  more  lay  groaning  on  the  ground. 
She  could  scarcely  believe  her  eyes.  A  moment  ago  she 
had  heard  his  voice,  and  he  seemed  then  to  be  in  perfect 
health. 


362        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Rosamund,  my  dear,"  said  her  uncle,  coming  up  to 
her  and  laying  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  "this  poor  fellow 
is  dreadfully  ill.  It  is  impossible  he  can  go  on,  but  he 
tells  me  that  these  good  folks,  who  know  the  country 
well  and  are  honest,  for  all  their  black  brows  and  forbid- 
ding looks,  are  going  up  the  gorge,  and  that  we  had 
better  go  on  with  them.  Matia  will  wait  behind  till  he 
is  better,  and  then  follow  on  by  a  short  cut  that  he  knows 
of  over  the  mountains  and  join  us  at  the  monastery  of 
Chatista,  where,  you  know,  we  are  to  rest  for  two  days." 

Almost  unconsciously  Rosamund  handed  the  sleeping 
child  back  to  its  mother,  and  then  turned  to  her  uncle. 

"Uncle,  you  will  never  be  so  mad  as  to  trust  yourself 
with  these  people!  You  only  need  to  look  at  them  to 
see  that  they  are  a  lawless  crew,  to  whom  neither  prop- 
erty nor  life  are  sacred.  I  beseech,  I  implore  you,  to 
turn  back  while  there  is  yet  time.  We  have  been  five 
hours  coming  here  from  Rosega;  we  can  get  down  in 
two.  We  may  meet  people  on  the  way;  they  are 
scarcely  likely  to  molest  us.  For  heaven's  sake!  do  as 
I  ask  you." 

Mr.  Kerquham  drew  himself  up  in  his  stiffest  manner, 
and  looked  at  his  niece  with  displeased  astonishment. 

"Rosamund,  I  never  knew  you  were  a  coward  before!" 

She  flushed  as  scarlet  as  though  he  had  struck  her, 
and  with  a  sigh  turned  away.  It  was  quite  useless.  She 
could  not  voice  her  fears  any  further  than  she  had  done. 
The  best  thing  to  do  was  to  stay  by  her  uncle  and  to 
hope  that  the  day  would  come  when  she  would  laugh  at 
herself  for  being  so  foolish. 

Surrounded  by  the  gipsy  band,  which  numbered  about 
thirty,  and  was  a  silent,  truculent  crowd,  Mr.  Kerquham 
and  Rosamund  set  out  again  upon  their  journey.  Though 
they  were  now  very  high  up  in  the  valley  and  the  road 


FALLEN  AMONG   THIEVES  363 

was  running  almost  along  the  brows  of  the  mountains, 
the  afternoon  drew  on  apace,  and  the  dusk  swept  quickly 
on.  As  the  light  failed,  Rosamund  noticed  that  the  great 
grey  wall  of  cloud  had  added  many  cubits  to  its  height, 
that  it  was  slowly  spreading  and  spreading,  and  shutting 
out  the  pale  blue  sky  bit  by  bit.  It  was  no  longer  in 
front  of  them.  It  was  creeping  above  them. 

In  the  rarefied  air  every  sound  became  painfully  sharp. 
Each  time  a  shod  hoof  struck  a  stone  or  a  woman's  high 
voice  spoke  Rosamund's  nerves  twanged  like  an  over- 
strung instrument.  The  air  was  full  of  electricity,  as  it 
is  before  a  coming  storm,  and  the  cold  that  had  up  till 
now  been  bearable,  became  piercing,  and  she  was  more 
than  glad  when  the  chief  of  the  band  pulled  up  short  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  and,  waving  his  hand  towards  a 
small  recess  among  the  beetling  crags,  ordered  his  people 
to  make  a  camp  there. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  travellers'  bedding  was  dragged 
from  their  horses  and  flung  upon  the  ground,  and  some 
bundles  of  cut  fern  were  spread  above  that.  Over  a 
handful  of  sticks  some  broth  was  warmed,  and  each  one 
had  a  cup  of  it.  Worn  out  by  the  long  day's  ride  and 
made  drowsy  by  the  cold,  Mr.  Kerquham,  after  the  hot 
broth,  was  soon  asleep,  and  Rosamund,  too,  wearied  by 
her  previous  night's  vigil,  and  despite  her  uneasiness  and 
physical  discomfort,  was  already  closing  her  eyes,  when 
light  fingers  that  seemed  to  creep  out  of  the  darkness 
were  laid  on  her  shoulder.  A  woman's  voice  murmured 
something — she  did  not  know  what — in  her  ear,  and  she 
fancied  that  through  the  night  a  white  hand  waved  and 
pointed  down  the  valley.  Rosamund,  lifting  her  own 
hand  to  the  face  that  bent  above  her,  felt  it  was  that  of 
a  girl,  and  then  she  knew  it  was  the  mother  of  the  sick 
baby,  who  was  trying  to  convey  some  warning  or  mes- 


364        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

sage  to  her.  Again  and  again  the  girl  whispered  eagerly, 
urging  her  to  some  action,  but  Rosamund  could  only 
shake  her  head.  She  could  understand  nothing.  Sud- 
denly a  coarse  voice  broke  through  the  stillness;  the 
gipsy  girl  gave  a  low  cry,  and  Rosamund  heard  her 
dragged  back  into  the  tent  that  was  pitched  against  the 
rock  behind  her.  "She  was  trying  to  tell  me  some- 
thing," thought  the  girl.  "I  fear  there  is  some  danger 
that  threatens  us." 

At  length  her  natural  fatigue  wore  out  her  nervous 
watchfulness,  and  she  slept,  not  quietly  or  restfully,  but 
lightly  and  always  with  a  sense  of  impending  danger. 
Once  she  half  rose  up  and  thought  she  heard  Matia's 
high  voice  and  light  laugh  close  by  her,  and  again  she 
half  roused  herself  in  the  midst  of  a  dream  about  horses 
that  were  trampling  past  in  an  endless  defile.  But  as 
the  night  wore  away  she  grew  quieter,  and  might  have 
slept  for  hours  but  that  the  intense  cold,  that  increased 
with  the  growing  day,  woke  her  up,  numbed  and  shiver- 
ing. 

Her  senses  were  alive  before  her  eyes  were  open,  and 
with  a  cry  she  staggered  to  her  feet.  What  had  hap- 
pened? Why  was  she  out  there  in  the  open,  chilled  to 
the  bone?  Where  was  her  uncle?  Where  were  the 
gipsies?  Her  eyes  wandered  round  her.  Her  uncle  was 
there,  sleeping  like  a  child  in  his  rugs,  but  every  one — 
everything  else  was  gone,  save  the  handful  of  ashes 
where  the  fire  had  been  lit  the  previous  evening. 

With  the  instinct  that  she  must  not  wake  Mr.  Kerqu- 
ham  too  suddenly  she  clasped  her  hands  across  her 
mouth  to  stifle  the  shriek  that  broke  from  her  lips,  for 
in  a  moment  she  guessed  all.  Matia  had  betrayed  them ! 
They  were  robbed  and  deserted!  Left  alone  on  this 
hideous  mountain  side  with  nothing  but  a  cruel  wind  and 


FALLEN  AMONG   THIEVES  365 

a  bare  rock  to  watch  them  die.  For  one  moment  she 
gave  way  to  an  absolute  panic,  and  scream  after  scream 
strangled  in  her  throat.  Then,  with  a  great  effort  of 
her  will,  she  curbed  her  fear  and  set  all  her  wits  to  work 
to  fight  this  fearful  calamity. 

The  day  was  dawning,  but  in  a  cold,  grey,  sickly  way 
that  frightened  her  again.  There  was  no  sun  to  rise, 
no  soft  pink  tints  upon  the  frowning  mountain  tops. 
The  whole  world  seemed  wrapped  in  that  hideous  grey 
cloud  which  now  hid  the  sky  from  horizon  to  horizon  and 
mountain  peak  to  mountain  peak.  "The  days  are 
short,"  she  thought,  despairingly.  "God  knows  what 
little  light  there  may  be  to-day.  I  must  rouse  him  at 
once.  Poor  uncle,  it  seems  cruel  to  wake  him  to  such 
fearful  news,  but  we  cannot  stop  here.  We  must  move 
on  somewhere.." 

She  shook  her  uncle,  and  then  as  he  lazily  woke,  she 
told  him  in  a  few  hurried  words  what  had  happened. 
He  took  the  news  better  than  she  had  expected,  and, 
rested  after  a  good  night's  sleep,  he  rose  with  vigour  to 
his  feet  and  prepared  to  go  with  her  which  way  she 
would.  She  decided  at  once  that  to  attempt  to  descend 
the  gorge  would  be  rushing  into  sure  death.  The  gipsies 
would  have  gone  that  way,  and  if  they  came  upon  them 
would  certainly  murder  them  to  escape  the  inevitable 
punishment  that  would  follow  their  theft.  They  must 
try  and  make  for  the  monastery  for  which  they  had  been 
bound,  and  where  they  had  hoped  to  rest  for  a  while 
before  going  over  the  mountain  pass  down  towards 
Greece. 

"Uncle,"  she  said  presently,  and  forced  her  voice  to 
steadiness,  "think,  dear,  and  help  me.  Can  you  tell  me 
now,  looking  at  them  from  here,  under  which  peak  the 
monastery  lies?  You  know  we  have  had  it  in  view  for 


366 

the  past  three  days,  but  these  heavy  clouds  have  altered 
things  this  morning,  and  I  am  not  sure  of  the  way  we 
should  make." 

"It  is  the  Argentalia  mountain,"  Mr.  Kerquham 
answered.  "It  has  a  double  peak.  Is  not  that  it  over 
there?" 

Rosamund  nodded,  while  a  sick  feeling  clutched  at 
her  heart.  How  far  off  those  double  peaks  looked,  and 
how  cruel,  striking  like  two  jagged  teeth  up  at  the  heavy 
sky. 

"It  was  three  days  from  here  by  road,"  she  said,  and 
then  she  sighed.  How  were  they  to  walk  that  rough 
track  for  three  days?  They  had  no  food,  nothing  but  a 
little  brandy.  She  drew  the  flask  from  her  pocket  and 
smiled  bitterly  to  think  that  Matia  had  had  the  greater 
portion  of  its  contents. 

"Uncle,  we  must  try  some  of  the  sheep  tracks.  We 
know  the  monastery  is  there  between  the  peaks.  We  were 
told  there  is  a  shorter  way  to  it  that  the  peasants  use. 
They  get  about  the  country  so  quickly.  We  must  try 
and  see  if  we  can  be  as  clever  as  they." 

She  bound  one  of  the  rugs  round  Mr.  Kerquham's 
shoulders  and  another  over  her  own,  but  the  rest  they 
had  to  leave  behind,  for  she  dare  not  overweight  herself, 
fearing  that  sooner  or  later  she  would  have  her  uncle  to 
support.  With  a  knife  that  hung  at  her  girdle  she  cut 
from  the  stunted  bushes  two  sticks,  and  after  trimming 
them  gave  her  arm  to  her  uncle  and  set  forth  with  him 
up  the  first  track  that  branched  from  the  beaten  road 
towards  Argentalia. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

IN   SNOWY  ARMS 

THAT  day  passed  for  Rosamund  like  some  evil  dream. 
All  thought  of  Paul,  all  hopes  of  their  reunion  were 
lost  in  the  sheer  struggle  for  shelter  and  food.  Their 
progress  was  so  slow  that  sometimes  she  fancied  her  feet 
were  tied  to  the  earth.  Now  and  again,  when  she 
looked  behind  her,  she  saw  within  range  the  same  clump 
of  stunted  bushes  or  heap  of  frost-killed  fern  that  she 
had  passed  hours  ago.  They  met  no  one,  and  at  times 
the  silence  of  the  great  gorge,  lying  still  as  death  under 
the  canopy  of  the  snow  clouds,  was  so  painful  that  her 
ears  ached,  and  when  her  uncle  spoke  to  her  his  quiet 
tones  seemed  to  echo  from  rock  to  rock  until  they  died 
away  like  mocking  laughter  in  the  distant  fastnesses  of 
the  close-ranged  mountains. 

There  was  no  sun,  so  she  could  not  judge  when  noon 
arrived,  for  the  intense  cold  had  stopped  both  their 
watches.  Luckily  there  was  but  little  air  stirring,  for 
she  knew  that  if  there  had  been  they  must  soon  have 
been  numbed  and  frozen  into  a  speedy  death.  But 
everything  was  so  fearfully  still.  All  nature  seemed 
waiting  for  the  bursting  of  the  great  clouds  that  rolled 
like  a  never-ending  sea  over  the  wild  mountain  tops. 
Thicker  and  thicker  they  grew,  and  greyer  and  greyer 
the  landscape  became  until  on  a  sudden  a  shifting  white- 
ness filled  all  the  air,  and  Rosamund  saw  upon  her  sleeve 
the  first  fine  snowflake. 

367 


368        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

She  knew  but  little  of  mountain  climbing,  and  had 
only  gathered  by  hearsay  a  slight  knowledge  of  the  dan- 
gers that  lie  in  a  great  snowstorm.  She  recognised  in  a 
few  minutes,  however,  how  true  such  travellers'  tales 
had  been,  for  even  as  she  urged  Mr.  Kerquham  to 
fresher  exertions,  the  air  was  one  dancing  whirl  of  thick, 
white  flakes,  and  not  only  the  double-peaked  Argentalia 
and  the  opposite  side  of  the  gorge,  but  even  the  very 
path  before  them  became  obscured. 

"We  must  find  shelter,  dear,"  she  cried,  "somewhere! 
somehow!"  She  forced  her  voice  to  keep  steady  and 
clenched  her  fingers  within  her  thick  gloves  to  prevent 
herself  from  wringing  her  hands.  "A  little  while  ago, 
before  the  snow  came,  just  when  we  turned  that  last 
curve,  I  thought  I  saw  a  patch  of  dead  fern.  It  cannot 
be  far.  If  we  could  get  there  we  might  rest' ' — she  raised 
heavy,  despairing  eyes  to  the  lowering  skies — "and 
perhaps  the  storm  will  pass  over." 

Her  uncle,  who  had  stopped  to  listen  to  her  words, 
swayed  a  little  on  his  feet.  His  face  looked  strangely 
blue  and  drawn,  and  his  breath  came  in  heavy  gasps,  for 
with  the  snow  had  risen  an  icy  wind  that  caught  them  by 
the  throat  and  almost  stopped  their  breathing. 

"I  will  try,  my  dear,"  he  said,  setting  his  tired  feet 
once  more  among  the  loose  stones  and  leaning  heavily 
on  his  rough  staff.  "I  will  try." 

With  encouraging  words  and  strong,  young  arms,  she 
helped  her  uncle  a  little  higher  up  the  track  and  found 
what  she  had  hoped  for — a  small  hole,  probably  scooped 
by  some  watching  shepherd,  in  the  limestone  rock  and 
overhung  by  a  few  scant  bushes.  Thrusting  her  uncle 
into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  meagre  shelter,  she  set 
herself  "with  all  her  strength  to  uproot  such  miserable 
vegetation  as  there  was.  It  strained  even  her  young 


IN  SNOWY  ARMS  369 

muscles  and  cut  her  hands  to  pull  the  twigs  and  leaves 
from  their  foothold  in  the  rock,  but  after  a  time  she  had 
got  an  armful,  enough  to  make  a  rough  pillow  for  Mr. 
Kerquham,  who  was  now  breathing  heavily,  as  a  man 
does  when  unconsciousness  is  creeping  over  him.  They 
had  no  food  with  them,  and  there  were  but  a  few  drops 
of  brandy  in  the  bottom  of  the  flask.  Rosamund,  in  her 
agony,  cursed  the  lying  Matia  for  robbing  them  of  the 
only  thing  that  was  now  likely  to  be  of  any  use.  As  she 
held  the  little  silver  cup  to  her  uncle's  blue  lips,  he  tried 
to  push  it  aside. 

"Take  it  yourself,  Rosie.  It  will  help  you  to  get  on 
to  the  top.  Nothing  can  be  of  any  use  to  me  now;  I  am 
finished." 

But  with  firm  hands  she  forced  him  to  take  the  spirits, 
telling  him  that  he  would  be  better  soon  after  he  had 
had  some  sleep,  and  that  in  the  morning  the  snow  would 
probably  have  stopped,  and  they  would  see  the  peaks  of 
Argentalia  again.  But  in  her  brave  heart  she  knew  that 
she  lied,  and  when  she  had  laid  him  back  on  the  rough 
bed  she  had  made  for  him  and  covered  him  with  the 
rugs  they  had,  and  went  to  the  edge  of  the  little  cave  to 
look  out  upon  the  waste  of  whiteness,  despair  seized 
upon  her  soul,  and  she  clasped  her  hands  together  and 
prayed  that  the  end  might  come  quickly. 

By-and-bye,  however,  she  noticed  that  the  wind, 
which  had  risen  to  a  shrill  shrieking  blast,  was  driving 
the  snow  into  eddies  and  drifts.  In  the  more  sheltered 
places  the  white  carpet  was  thickening  moment  by  mo- 
ment, but  where  the  mountain  sides  were  exposed  at  all 
not  a  flake  rested.  Then  she  prayed  to  God  that  the 
wind  might  hold,  and  that  the  track  which  they  were  fol- 
lowing might  be  blown  bare  during  the  oncoming  night, 
which  was  now  sweeping  up  the  valley  and  turning  the 


370        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

grey  and  white  to  one  universal  blackness.  She  tried 
to  guess  the  time  and  rewind  her  watch,  which  she 
slipped  into  her  bosom  in  the  hope  that  the  warmth  of 
her  body  might  set  it  going  again.  She  thought  it  might 
be  four  o'clock,  but  the  day  had  never  been  more  than 
a  prolonged  dawn,  and  the  evening  had  come  so  soon 
that  she  feared  she  was  wrong  in  her  calculations. 

She  stood  at  the  mouth  of  the  little  cave,  and  so  long 
as  her  eyes  could  pierce  the  dense  blackness  she  watched 
to  see  if  the  mountain  track  remained  clear  of  snow. 
Yes!  thank  God!  the  wind  still  set  fair  for  them. 

It  was  a  cruel  blast  that  hissed  and  lashed  and  tore 
and  raved  down  the  gorge.  It  caught  the  snow  even  in 
the  air,  and  swept  it  clear  away  in  huge  waves.  It  froze 
the  girl  almost  to  a  stone  as  she  stood  there,  filled  with 
only  one  fear  and  one  hope.  As  the  pall  of  night  fell 
she  heard  her  uncle's  voice  behind  her.  It  sounded 
very  feeble,  and  he  seemed  to  be  crying,  as  a  tired  child 
cries. 

"Rosamund,  where  are  you?  I  cannot  see  you.  I 
am  so  cold;  come  and  sit  by  me,  dear." 

Feeling  her  way  by  the  side  of  the  rocks  she  crept  to 
his  side,  and  sitting  on  the  floor,  drew  the  rugs  closer 
round  him  and  tried  to  get  him  to  sleep  again,  but  the 
poor  man  was  filled  with  regrets  and  self-reproaches. 
He  repeated  a  thousand  times  how  wrong  he  had  been  to 
disregard  Hugh  Eraser's  advice  and  the  instincts  of 
women,  who  foresaw  dangers  before  they  came,  and  he 
wished  that  he  had  been  guided  by  her  dislike  to  the 
expedition.  He  cursed  the  Skreli  guide  and  called  down 
the  wrath  of  God  upon  the  thieving  gipsies. 

After  a  time  his  brain,  weakened  by  the  cold  and  lack 
of  food,  wandered  a  little,  and  he  talked  of  his  studio 
at  "The  Hurst"  and  of  his  dead  wife,  Margot,  and  com- 


IN  SNOWT  ARMS  37 1 

plained  how  cold  the  house  was,  and  that  the  doors  and 
windows  must  all  have  been  left  open.  Rosamund,  with 
dry  eyes  and  a  bleeding  heart,  could  do  nothing  but  sit 
and  listen.  Her  words  of  comfort  and  encouragement 
fell  on  deaf  ears,  for  her  uncle  had  drifted  into  the  land 
of  unconsciousness,  and  could  only  mutter  about  what 
he  found  there.  The  girl  was  getting  numbed  to  the 
bone  from  sitting  so  long  in  one  position,  when  suddenly 
her  uncle's  head  dropped  on  her  shoulder. 

"I  am  so  cold,"  he  whispered,  and  then  he  went  to 
sleep. 

Though  she  was  aching  in  every  limb  and  sick  with 
hunger,  Rosamund  remained  staunch  to  her  grand 
resolve  of  taking  care  of  the  one  being  in  the  world  who 
had  done  all  in  his  power  to  guard  her  own  life.  Gently 
and  by  degrees  she  shifted  herself  and  the  sleeping  man 
into  a  more  comfortable  position,  and  then  wound  her 
arms  closely  round  him,  determined  that  up  to  the  last 
she  would  give  him  all  the  best  of  her  warmth  and 
strength. 

Full  of  pain  and  weariness  as  she  was,  she  must  have 
lost  consciousness  for  some  time,  for  the  night  seemed 
to  slip  away  very  quickly  and  the  ghastly  pallor  of  the 
dawn  crept  over  the  ragged  mountain  tops  almost 
before  she  thought  it  was  possible. 

Her  first  waking  thought  concerned  the  mountain 
track.  If  that  was  lost  in  the  snow,  then  they  had  bet- 
ter stay  where  they  were  and  wait  for  the  end.  If  it 
was  bare,  they  might  still  struggle  on,  for  she  felt  sure 
that  sooner  or  later  the  rough  path  must  bring  them  to 
the  monastery  or  to  some  mountain  village.  Mr.  Ker- 
quham  was  sleeping  heavily,  though  his  eyes  were  not 
quite  closed,  but  she  felt  that  he  was  warmer,  and  she 
saw  that  the  bliie  look  had  gone  from  about  his  mouth. 


372        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

So  set  were  her  own  limbs  that  she  could  not  rise  to  her 
feet  when  she  had  laid  her  uncle  down,  but  she  managed 
painfully  and  slowly  to  drag  herself  on  her  hands  to  the 
mouth  of  the  cave.  Thank  heaven!  the  snow  had 
stopped  falling  and  the  track  was  clear.  Everything 
else  was  robed  in  whiteness  and  it  seemed  as  though 
Providence  itself  had  traced  the  little  pathway  up  the 
hills  on  which  they  might  walk  to  shelter  and  safety. 

The  head  of  every  mountain  round  was  robed  in 
sullen  clouds,  and  at  any  moment  the  storm  might 
recommence.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  and  after 
she  had  rubbed  some  life  back  to  her  feet  and  hands  she 
roused  Mr.  Kerquham.  He  seemed  less  weak  than  he 
had  done  the  night  before,  and  he  got  to  his  feet 
and  out  into  the  air  with  more  activity  than  she  had 
hoped  for.  Again  wrapping  themselves  in  their  rugs 
they  started  up  the  hill,  though  the  mighty  wind  that 
roared  and  lashed  their  faces  seemed  to  cut  them  to  the 
bone. 

Rosamund's  watch  was  now  going,  and  she  timed  the 
first  part  of  their  journey.  They  had  walked  quite 
briskly  for  nearly  two  hours,  and  had  made  good  prog- 
ress, when  Mr.  Kerquham,  with  a  little  cry,  clutched  at 
her  arm,  and  then  fell  face  downwards  on  the  stony  track. 

"He  has  fainted  from  hunger,"  cried  Rosamund 
aloud  to  the  pitiless  crags  and  frowning  skies.  "Good 
God!  What  am  I  to  do  now?  I  cannot  leave  him  to  die 
here." 

She  stopped  and  tried  to  lift  him  in  her  arms,  but  her 
own  strength  had  left  her.  She  wrung  her  hands. 

"What  am  I  to  do?  What  am  I  to  do?  This  is  the 
worst  of  all.  If  I  could  only  get  him  back  to  the  cave, 
at  least  he  would  die  in  some  shelter." 

Her  own  frantic  cries  so  filled  her  ears  that  she  did 


IN  SNOWr  ARMS  373 

not  hear  the  tinkle  of  a  bell  or  the  scrambling  steps  of 
an  approaching  horse.  It  was  only  when  another  voice 
mingled  with  her  own  that  she  stayed  her  wailing  and 
listened  with  sharp  up-pricked  ears. 

"Who  is  there?     Is  any  one  in  trouble?" 

It  was  a  man's  voice  speaking  in  Italian. 

"Yes,  yes,"  shouted  Rosamund  with  all  her  strength. 
"Come  quickly!  There  is  a  man  dying." 

A  moment  later  there  stood  before  her  in  the  path  a 
small  sturdy  pony,  trapped  with  a  rough  saddle  and  bear- 
ing on  his  back  a  man  armed  to  the  teeth  and  wearing 
the  Albanian  dress.  His  fez  was  bound  to  his  head  with 
the  customary  red  shawl,  which  had  been  tied  about  his 
mouth,  but  which  he  had  dragged  aside  to  speak  the 
clearer.  He  had  gyves  upon  his  legs  and  goatskin  shoes. 
Over  all  he  wore  the  brown  capa  of  a  Franciscan  monk. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  cried,  "who  are  you?  How 
have  you  got  here?" 

But  Rosamund  could  only  point  to  her  uncle,  who 
still  lay  stretched  in  the  track,  motionless  and  apparently 
dead.  All  speech  was  strangled  in  her  throat,  for  now 
that  relief  had  come,  hysteria  had  seized  her  and  she 
felt  that  if  she  spoke  she  must  scream. 

With  a  swing  of  his  strong  arms,  the  sturdy  fellow 
raised  up  Mr.  Kerquham,  and  pulling  from  his  waist- 
band a  big  leather  flask  studded  round  the  neck  with 
small  nails,  forced  some  spirit  between  the  dying  man's 
clenched  teeth.  Then,  still  murmuring  to  himself  a 
strange  mixture  of  prayers  and  objurgations,  he  handed 
the  bottle  to  the  girl,  while  he  began  to  chafe  Mr.  Ker- 
quham's  icy  hands. 

"So,  so,"  he  said  presently,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  travellers,  "you  have  had  an  adventure  up 
here." 


374        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Rosamund  could  still  only  nod.  She  was  past  all 
speech,  though  the  ardent  spirit  she  had  taken  was 
beginning  to  thaw  her  freezing  limbs  and  stir  her  poor 
numbed  brain  to  activity  once  more.  Presently  the 
monk — for  such  he  was,  despite  his  strangely  incongru- 
ous attire — rose  from  his  knees  by  Mr.  Kerquham.  He 
looked  at  Rosamund,  at  the  horse,  and  at  the  unconscious 
man  on  the  ground. 

"Can  you  walk?"  he  asked  her. 

Rosamund  said,  "Yes."  She  felt  as  if  new  life  were 
thrilling  through  her,  and  as  though,  now  that  help  was 
so  near  at  hand,  she  could  struggle  on  for  hours. 

"Well,  so  can  I,"  said  the  good  Franciscan,  "and 
the  poor  signer  shall  have  the  horse,  for  he  is  past  every- 
thing, I  think." 

He  lifted  Mr.  Kerquham  into  the  saddle,  and  turned 
the  horse's  head  up  the  steep  track  again,  holding  the 
unconscious,  swaying  figure  between  the  high  wooden 
peaks  with  one  sunburnt  hand.  Slowly  as  the  horse 
went,  slipping  and  sliding  at  every  step,  Rosamund  was 
so  weak  that  she  had  great  difficulty  in  keeping  pace  with 
it,  but  now  and  then  in  the  course  of  the  wearisome 
progress  the  monk  flung  a  question  or  a  word  of  encour- 
agement to  her  over  his  shoulder.  By-and-bye  her 
brain  grew  sufficiently  active  to  ask  where  they  were 
going. 

"To  the  monastery  of  Chatista, "  was  the  answer. 

"That  is  where  we  were  bound  for,"  said  Rosamund. 
"We  should  have  been  there  yesterday,  I  suppose,  only 
some  gipsies  robbed  us  of  our  horses  and  our  luggage 
and  left  us  by  the  roadside." 

The  monk  shook  his  head. 

"They  are  the  curse  of  the  country — those  vile  brig- 
ands." He  significantly  touched  the  gleaming  barrels 


IN  SNOWT  ARMS  375 

of  the  pistols  in  his  girdle.  "We  are  always  prepared  to 
account  for  some  of  them." 

Rosamund,  looking  at  his  kindly  face  and  twinkling 
little  eyes,  could  not  help  wondering  at  the  strangeness 
of  a  country  which  forced  the  men  of  God  to  go  about 
armed  against  their  fellows. 

"Are  we  far  from  the  monastery  now?"  gasped  Rosa- 
mund as  she  felt  herself  growing  weaker  and  weaker  and 
her  footsteps  more  uncertain. 

"If  it  were  not  so  black,  you  could  see  the  peaks  of 
Argentalia  high  above  our  heads,"  said  the  monk. 
"The  monastery  lies  on  a  terrace  of  the  nearer  one,  but 
it  is  another  hour's  scramble." 

Suddenly  he  stopped  his  horse  before  a  sharp  turn  out 
of  the  track  which  wandered  away  to  the  left  round  the 
foot  of  a  low  hill  and  was  lost  in  the  snows. 

"We  go  this  way,  to  the  right,"  he  said,  gently,  lead- 
ing the  animal  round  the  sharp  curve,  and  beginning  a 
steeper  ascent  than  they  had  yet  compassed.  "That 
other  path  leads  to  the  Chatista  valley  and  the  village 
that  lies  in  it." 

For  one  moment  Rosamund  stopped  to  take  fresh 
breath  and  cast  a  look  about  her.  Down  below,  that 
hideous  Valley  of  Death  from  which  Providence  had 
rescued  her  was  already  hidden  in  lowering  masses  of 
driving  clouds.  To  the  left  wandered  the  little  track, 
and  as  she  thought  that  she  might  have  followed  that 
unknowingly  and  been  lost  forever  in  the  wide  snow- 
filled  valley  that  lay  beyond,  she  shuddered. 

On  the  right  was  a  steep,  stony  path,  bordered  with 
rocks  and  furrowed  by  the  course  of  heavy  rains.  At 
the  juncture  of  the  rough  roads  where  she  stood  was 
reared  a  huge  black  wood  cross.  It  was  so  high  that  it 
appeared  to  dominate  the  whole  landscape  round,  and  its 


37^        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

great  arms,  finished  at  either  end  with  the  trefoil  that  is 
emblematical  of  the  Trinity,  seemed  flung  abroad  more 
in  menace  than  in  blessing.  For  one  moment  as  she 
stood  there  the  sun  broke  through  a  ragged  rent  in  the 
scurrying  clouds  and  the  shadow  of  the  cross  was  cast 
at  Rosamund's  feet.  After  the  whiteness  which  had 
blinded  her  eyes  for  so  many  hours,  the  sharp  denseness 
of  the  shadow  looked  like  a  rift  in  the  ground.  She  did 
not  know  why,  but  as  she  started  up  the  mountain  once 
more  she  carefully  stepped  over  the  shadow,  as  she  would 
have  set  her  foot  across  a  little  brook. 

She  had  no  breath  now  for  speech,  for  it  took  all  her 
thoughts  and  strength  and  will  to  enable  her  to  struggle 
through  the  next  hour.  Long  as  the  time  seemed,  she 
was  startled  when  suddenly  a  great  wall  loomed  before 
her,  and  a  moment  later  the  monk  was  standing  at  the 
top  of  a  wide  flight  of  stone  steps  and  knocking  with  a 
huge  iron  hammer  at  a  heavily-nailed  door. 

"Where  is  this  place?"  said  Mr.  Kerquham,  roused 
from  his  torpor  by  the  heavy  strokes  of  the  hammer. 

"It  is  the  monastery,  dear,"  Rosamund  said  through 
her  sobbing  breath.  "The  monastery  of  Chatista. " 

The  door  opened,  and  the  monk  came  down  again 
and  helped  them  in.  Mr.  Kerquham  trembled  and  shiv- 
ered. 

"What  a  dreadful  looking  place,"  he  murmured  as  he 
painfully  descended  from  the  horse  and,  bent  nearly 
double,  slowly  crept  up  the  stone  steps. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

THE   PRISONER  OF  GOD 

ROSAMUND,  aching  in  every  limb  and  with  her  strength 
spent,  followed  her  uncle  and  the  monk  under  the  wide 
archway,  above  which  hung  the  magnificent  antlers  of  a 
red  deer.  As  they  set  foot  across  the  threshold  a  great 
peal  of  bells  rang  forth  through  the  thick,  snow-laden 
air.  It  was  the  customary  welcome  that  was  given  to 
all  travellers. 

They  slowly  crossed  a  great  square  court,  surrounded 
by  cloisters  on  three  sides  and  overlooked  by  narrow 
windows,  in  which  small  panes  were  set  in  herring-bone 
pattern.  From  the  far  corner  of  the  cloisters,  where  a 
faint  light  showed  the  bottom  of  a  wide  wooden  staircase, 
a  tall  monk,  clad  like  their  escort  and  carrying  a  bunch  of 
heavy  keys  jangling  among  the  barrels  of  his  pistols, 
appeared.  His  face  was  rugged  and  worn,  but  he  gave 
Mr.  Kerquham  and  Rosamund  a  kindly  greeting  in  Ital- 
ian, and  telling  them  he  was  steward  of  the  monastery, 
bade  them  follow  him  into  the  building. 

Mr.  Kerquham  was  too  exhausted  even  to  thank  the 
father,  but  Rosamund  murmured  a  few  words  between 
her  dried  lips.  As  they  walked  slowly  through  the 
cloisters  they  passed  many  monks,  all  dark-eyed  and 
swarthy,  and  each  sheltered  from  the  piercing  cold  by 
the  heavy  brown  monk's  habit  which  looked  so  incon- 
gruous above  the  truculent  and  gaudy  national  dress. 
On  reaching  the  staircase  in  the  corner,  Rosamund  her- 

377 


378        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

self  had  to  help  her  uncle  up  the  wide  shallow  steps. 
The  steps  were  of  stone,  but  the  balustrade  was  of  a 
dark  oak,  richly  carved,  and  even  in  the  midst  of  her 
weariness  and  physical  suffering  the  girl  noticed  the 
beauty  of  the  lintel  and  sideposts  of  the  doorway  through 
which  they  passed  when  they  reached  the  first  floor. 

Here  the  gallery  was  warm  and  comfortable.  The 
windows  were  so  small  and  set  in  such  thick  walls  that 
the  outer  cold  did  not  seem  to  penetrate  at  all.  Coarsely 
woven  carpets,  that  yet  were  thick  and  warm,  were 
strewn  over  the  polished  boards,  and  the  low  ceiling  of 
oaken  beams  gave  an  air  of  extreme  comfort.  They 
were  ushered  at  once  into  a  small  room,  where,  on  a  wide 
hearth,  set  with  small  red  bricks  in  a  florid  Oriental 
pattern,  a  young  monk  was  blowing  into  life  a  large  fire 
of  logs.  Wooden  settles  were  placed  all  round  the  wall, 
and  the  steward  led  Mr.  Kerquham  to  one  of  them.  A 
moment  later  a  couple  of  tawny-skinned,  stalwart  youths 
entered,  carrying  with  them  a  ponderous  high-backed 
chair  built  of  black  oak  and  covered  in  well-worn  tapes- 
try. They  set  it  on  the  hearth,  which  spread  far  into 
the  room,  and  supported  Mr.  Kerquham  to  its  cosy 
depths. 

All  this  time  Rosamund  was  gazing  with  apathetic 
eyes  at  the  bustling  preparations.  She  was  roused  from 
her  reverie  by  the  steward's  question: 

"Are  you  this  gentleman's  daughter?" 

"I  am  his  niece,"  answered  Rosamund.  "We  were 
travelling  to  your  monastery,  and  meant,  after  asking 
your  hospitality,  to  go  over  the  pass  into  Greece,  but 
now  I  fear  my  uncle  is  too  ill." 

The  monk  followed  her  eyes  from  the  huddled  up  form 
of  Mr.  Kerquham  to  the  narrow  window,  across  which  a 
few  light,  airy  flakes  were  slowly  floating. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  GOD  379 

"You  cannot  move  at  present,"  said  he,  in  his  deep 
voice.  "I  will  send  you  some  food  at  once,  and  then 
ask  the  Abbot  to  receive  you." 

Wine  and  bread  and  a  dish  of  stewed  meat  were  soon 
brought  into  the  room,  and  Rosamund  dragged  herself 
over  to  the  table  and  the  fire  and  tried  to  get  her  uncle 
to  take  some  food.  She  herself  felt  sick  and  faint,  but 
the  wine,  rough  as  it  was,  in  some  measure  restored  her, 
so  that  she  was  able  to  eat  a  little  of  the  savoury  stew 
and  the  coarse  brown  bread.  She  was  grieved  that 
beyond  taking  a  few  sips  of  the  wine,  Mr.  Kerquham 
could  swallow  nothing.  As  the  warmth  of  the  pleasant 
fire  crept  over  her,  the  buoyancy  of  youth  asserted  itself 
and  her  courage  came  back  once  more. 

"A  few  days  here,"  she  thought,  "and  uncle  will  be 
quite  well  again.  It  is  no  good  forcing  him  to  eat,  he 
is  too  worn  out  just  now." 

But  Rosamund's  hopes  were  fathers  to  her  thoughts, 
for  as  the  hours  stole  by  and  the  short  day  dwindled  into 
night,  Mr.  Kerquham  sank  into  an  apathetic,  uncon- 
scious state.  The  good  monks,  who  had  some  rough 
knowledge  of  medicine,  carried  him  gently  to  the  next 
room  and  laid  him  in  the  bed.  From  time  to  time  they 
forced  some  spirits  between  his  lips,  but  nothing  roused 
him,  and  it  seemed  at  one  time  as  if  he  had  died  in  his 
sleep. 

The  monks  were  too  humane  to  ask  Rosamund  to 
leave  her  uncle,  and  so  the  Abbot  came  himself  to  her. 
He  was  the  wreck  of  a  fine  man,  with  a  long  grey  beard 
and  bent  shoulders.  Instead  of  the  Albanian  fez,  which 
the  other  monks  wore,  his  white  hair  was  covered  with 
a  small  black  skull  cap.  Unlike  the  other  whom  Rosa- 
mund had  seen,  he  did  not  seem  a  pure-bred  Italian. 
There  was  a  dreamy  look  in  his  large  soft  eyes  and  a 


380        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

certain  immobility  about  his  strongly-marked  features 
that  pointed  to  an  Oriental  descent,  though  he  spoke  the 
soft  Southern  language  very  well. 

The  few  words  that  he  said  to  the  unhappy  girl  were 
full  of  sympathy  and  genuine  sorrow.  All  that  could  be 
done  should  be  done,  he  promised,  and  he  and  the  com- 
munity would  offer  up  special  prayers  for  the  life  of  her 
uncle  and  for  the  comfort  of  herself  in  the  chapel. 

For  three  days  Mr.  Kerquham  lay  in  the  low-canopied 
bedstead  like  one  who  is  dead.  For  three  days  Rosa- 
mund sat  scarcely  conscious  of  her  own  weariness,  only 
eating  and  drinking  when  the  monks  forced  food  upon 
her,  and  realising  nothing  but  that  once  more  she  was 
face  to  face  with  Death.  On  the  morning  of  the  fourth 
day  her  uncle  gave  a  sigh  and  died  quite  quietly,  utterly 
unconscious  that  he  was  surrounded  by  kindly  hands  and 
friendly  faces. 

Too  stunned  for  outward  grief,  Rosamund  submitted 
to  be  led  away  into  another  room  that  the  steward  told 
her  had  been  prepared  for  her.  It  seemed  a  long  way 
off,  along  corridors  and  through  many  carved  doorways 
and  up  and  down  little  flights  of  steps,  the  purpose  of 
which  she  did  not  divine. 

"You  had  better  rest  here,"  they  said.  "The  rooms 
have  been  prepared  for  you.  We  will  let  you  know 
when  all  is  ready." 

For  the  first  time  for  many  days  Rosamund  was  left 
alone.  At  first  the  sensation  of  solitude  brought  peace 
with  it,  but  by-and-bye  remembrance  touched  her  with 
a  rude  hand,  and  she  wept  long  and  bitterly  for  the  loss 
of  her  dead  and  dearest  friend.  Yet  that  night,  worn 
out  with  weary  watching,  she  slept  well,  and  with  the 
morning  the  solemn  tolling  of  a  muffled  bell  woke  her 
with  both  brain  and  body  well  refreshened.  She  felt  able 


THE  PRISONER   OF  GOD  381 

once  more  to  face  life  again  and  set  her  foot  on  the  path 
that  lay  before  her. 

It  was  the  steward's  voice  that  spoke  to  her  half  an 
hour  later  through  the  door. 

"The  signor  is  lying  in  the  chapel,"  he  said. 
"Though  you  are  not  of  our  Church,  we  feel  sure  you 
will  not  resent  a  few  prayers  being  said  for  the  peace  of 
his  soul.  If  you  will  follow  me,  I  will  take  you  there." 

And  so  Mr.  Kerquham's  life  ended,  as  so  many  lives 
do,  with  a  strange  irony.  He  who  had  been  born  and 
brought  up  in  the  hard  faith  of  Calvin,  and  who,  despite 
his  worldly  knowledge  and  big  heart,  had  shunned  the 
forms  and  ceremonies  and  professions  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  now  lay  in  death,  a  poor  shrunken  body,  on  a 
hand  bier  in  a  monastic  chapel.  Rosamund's  tears  at 
first  took  an  added  bitterness  from  the  thought,  as  she 
knelt  by  the  black  and  silver  pall  that  covered  the 
remains  of  the  courtly  gentleman  and  successful  artist 
and  heard  from  behind  the  heavy  curtains  of  the  choir 
the  deep  voices  chanting  a  Requiem  Mass.  But  even  as 
she  wept,  reason  came  to  her,  and  she  knew  that  the 
Father  had  been  right.  A  Christian  should  have  a  Chris- 
tian burial,  whatever  the  outward  forms  might  be. 

A  sweet  silence  reigned  for  some  time,  and  Rosamund 
in  sacred  solitude  took  farewell  of  her  dead.  Then  at 
the  end  of  the  Mass  four  stalwart  monks  took  the  bier 
with  its  light  burden  and  bore  it  from  her  sight.  The 
brotherhood,  with  bent  heads,  their  cowls  completely 
shrouding  their  faces,  formed  behind  in  a  solemn  proces- 
sion and  passed  out  of  the  chapel. 

Rosamund  lost  all  count  of  time  as  she  crouched  on 
the  flagged  floor  with  hidden  face  and  sob-shaken  frame. 
She  was  only  roused  by  a  light  touch  upon  her  shoulder. 

"We  feared  the  cold  might  have  caused  you  to  sleep, 


382        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

you  were  so  still,"  said  the  monk  at  her  side.  She 
recognised  him  as  having  been  her  saviour  on  the  moun- 
tain side.  "Death  happens  that  way  sometimes  when  we 
have  these  fearful  storms." 

As  she  rose  stiffly  to  her  feet,  catching  at  the  low 
bench  in  front  of  her  for  support,  he  added: 

"You  have  knelt  here  too  long.  The  Abbot  would 
like  to  see  you  if  you  can  come  to  him.  He  would  like 
to  speak  with  you." 

Brushing  the  tears  from  her  lashes,  Rosamund  fol- 
lowed the  monk.  This  time  she  was  taken  through 
many  rooms,  all  panelled  with  oak,  and  many  of  them 
hung  with  rich,  gold  Venetian  leathers.  On  every  wide- 
throated  hearth  roaring  fires  blazed  on  dogs  of  quaintly 
beaten  iron.  Here  and  there  a  dim  corner  was  glorified 
by  a  tall  cabinet  of  ebony  and  ivory,  a  vase  of  polished 
metal,  or  a  settle  of  oak  that  from  age  and  use  shone  like 
bronze  in  the  firelight.  The  sound  of  footsteps  struck 
no  echo  from  the  cross-beamed  ceiling,  for  the  carpets 
that  lay  upon  the  floors  were  very  thick.  Before  each 
door  curtains  of  old  tapestry  or  leather  hung  in  ample 
folds,  and  the  whole  atmosphere  breathed  of  warmth 
and  refined  comfort. 

At  the  end  of  the  long  suite  her  pilot  paused,  and 
after  knocking  at  a  door  entered  for  a  moment,  leaving 
her  outside.  She  heard  a  few  words  exchanged.  They 
were  not  in  Italian,  but  in  the  bastard  language  that 
many  of  the  monks  of  mixed  nationalities  speak  among 
themselves.  Then  the  door  opened  and  the  Abbot's 
voice  bade  her  enter. 

She  found  herself  in  a  long,  low  room,  the  five  win- 
dows of  which  looked  from  under  the  shadow  of  the 
cloisters  into  the  courtyard.  Sacred  pictures  hung  on 
the  walls,  and  the  high  mantel-shelf  was  graced  with 


THE  PRISONER   OF  GOD  383 

some  old  bronze  candlesticks  of  rare  beauty.  A  long 
table,  black  with  age  and  with  a  deep  carved  edge,  was 
littered  with  papers  and  books.  Before  the  fire  were 
arm-chairs,  high-backed  and  deep-seated.  The  Abbot 
motioned  her  to  one  of  them  kindly,  and  then  spoke  a 
few  words  of  respectful  sympathy  for  the  loss  she  had 
suffered.  Rosamund,  with  clasped  hands  and  her  white 
face  standing  out  like  an  ivory  carving  against  the  dark 
walls,  thanked  the  Abbot  for  his  kindness,  and  then  with 
a  sigh  added: 

"I  will  ask  you  to  be  good  enough  to  put  me  on  the 
road  to  get  to  some  town.  Perhaps  you  will  tell  me 
where  I  should  go,  for  I  feel  lost.  My  uncle  knew  the 
road  he  meant  to  follow,  but  he  never  confided  his  entire 
plans  to  me. " 

"All  plans  are  useless,  my  daughter,"  said  the  Abbot, 
"for  you  can  go  nowhere.  You  cannot  leave  this 
place." 

Rosamund  turned  her  tear-laden  eyes  from  the  burn- 
ing logs  and  looked  in  the  Abbot's  face. 

"Cannot  go!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  don't  understand. 
I  am  quite  rested  now — or  at  least  I  shall  be  in  another 
day  or  two.  If  I  may  have  an  escort  to  the  nearest  vil- 
lage, I  am  sure  I  can  manage  for  myself." 

"It  is  not  the  question  of  escort  or  of  your  own  cour- 
age, my  daughter.  God  for  His  own  purpose  has  so 
arranged  it  that  you  must  stay  here.  Though  it  is 
against  the  rules  of  our  order  that  other  than  a  sick 
woman  shall  lie  beneath  our  roof,  Providence  has 
decreed  it  otherwise.  If  by  keeping  you  here  we  break 
those  rules,  at  least  we  are  fulfilling  the  first  laws  of 
Christianity,  which  ordain  that  all  must  succour  one 
another." 

"But  I  wish  to  go,"  cried  Rosamund,  starting  to  her 


THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

feet  with  an  unknown  fear  knocking  at  her  heart.  "I 
cannot  stop  here." 

"We  cannot  burden  our  souls  with  the  crime  of  mur- 
der by  letting  you  go." 

"Murder?     Letting  me  go!  Am  I  in  any  danger?" 

The  Abbot  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  with  his  large 
Eastern  eyes. 

"Is  it  possible,"  he  said  in  his  soft,  thick  voice,  "that 
your  sorrow  has  blinded  you  to  what  has  happened  dur- 
ing these  last  three  days?  Ah!  I  see  that  it  has.  The 
snows  have  fallen,  and  no  one  can  leave  this  place  and 
hope  to  live  until  the  spring  comes." 

"The  snows?     Are  we  snowed  up?" 

"The  snows  lie  so  thick  about  us  that  neither  man 
nor  beast  nor  any  living  creature,  save  a  bird,  can  come 
to  this  place  or  leave  it  till  many  months  are  passed. 
To  drive  you  from  our  doors  would  be  to  send  you  to 
certain  death." 

Rosamund  sank  back  into  the  deep  chair  with  a  little 
cry. 

The  Abbot  rose  from  his  seat,  and  crossing  over  to 
her,  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head. 

"The  prospect  is  a  strange  one  to  you  at  first.  I  can 
quite  understand  that  you  are  filled  with  grief  and  dis- 
may, but  it  is  our  mission  in  life  to  minister  to  the 
unhappy,  and  to  do  what  we  can  to  reconcile  them  to  life. 
Everything  will  be  done  for  your  comfort,  and  so  far  as 
is  in  our  power  and  we  are  permitted  by  the  rules  of  our 
order,  we  will  grant  you  every  consideration.  Even 
now  they  are  arranging  rooms  for  you." 

A  mad  idea  seized  her  that  she  was  being  made  a 
prisoner.  Tales  of  people  who  had  disappeared  mysteri- 
ously, ransoms,  tortures,  and  a  score  of  other  horrors 
filled  her  brain.  She  started  wildly  from  her  chair. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  GOD  385 

"I  only  want  to  go,"  she  cried,  stretching  out  plead- 
ing hands  to  him.  "For  heaven's  sake,  let  me  go.  I 
would  rather  die  out  there  in  the  snow  than  stop  here. 
The  loneliness  would  drive  me  mad.  Don't  think  I  am 
ungrateful — but  I  should  do  nothing  but  think  and  think 
and  think  until  I  should  not  be  able  to  bear  it." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  the  Abbot,  soothingly. 
"Your  thoughts  can  be  none  too  happy  just  now,  my 
poor  child." 

"The  monk  who  brought  us  here  told  me  there  was  a 
village  in  the  valley.  Let  me  go  there.  The  snows  will 
melt  there  sooner,  and  then  I  can  get  away." 

"I  would  sooner  see  you  dead  than  set  your  foot 
towards  that  village.  They  are  a  wild  and  lawless  set 
down  there.  They  are  still  sunk  in  Mohammedanism, 
and  are  superstitious  and  savage.  It  would  not  be  safe 
for  you  to  go  among  them." 

"But  there  must  be  some  other  way  down,"  she  per- 
sisted. 

"There  is  no  way,  my  daughter.  For  six  months  in 
every  twelve  this  monastery  is  a  living  tomb.  We  are 
cut  off  from  everything.  Even  the  bears  and  the 
wolves  that  haunt  these  mountains  do  not  come  here." 

Rosamund  sank  back  in  her  chair,  her  whole  face  and 
attitude  bespeaking  the  mental  collapse  which  was  over- 
taking her.  The  Abbot  seated  himself,  and  leaning  his 
head  on  his  hands  gazed  into  the  fire.  Presently  he  said : 

"My  daughter,  the  manner  of  your  coming  and  your 
enforced  stay  here  are  so  extraordinary  that  I  cannot 
but  believe  that  Providence  is  working  to  some  end.  I 
will  do  for  you  what  has  never  been  done  for  another 
woman,  and  if  there  is  any  sin  in  it  I  will  confess  it  and 
bear  the  punishment.  You  shall  go  each  day  to  the 
library.  We  have  one  that  is  well  stocked  here,  for 


386        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

most  of  us  read  much  at  these  times.  The  good  Father 
who  is  custodian  of  our  books  shall  find  for  you  such  as 
he  may  think  fit  for  your  reading.  Come  to  the  chapel 
everyday.  Oh!  do  not  think  that  we  are  going  to  try 
to  convert  you.  If  it  is  decreed  that  you  are  to  become 
of  our  faith,  God  will  move  your  heart  towards  us  in  his 
own  good  time.  Meanwhile,  to  pray  and  to  listen  to  the 
beautiful  music  which  was  made  by  great  men  for  all 
religions  may  help  and  soothe  you.  Do  not  always  keep 
to  your  own  rooms;  walk  in  the  corridor  that  lies  outside 
them  and  in  the  one  that  runs  beyond  that  again.  There 
is  a  screen  there  which  lies  between  the  monastic  quar- 
ters and  those  that  are  set  apart  by  the  rules  of  our 
order  for  the  visitors  that  come  to  us.  In  that  way  you 
will  get  change  and  the  benefit  of  exercise." 

The  Abbot  paused  and  looked  keenly  at  the  girl's 
face.  Her  habits  of  self-control  and  reserve  had  helped 
her  to  conquer  the  emotion  that  had  so  shaken  her  a 
while  back.  Now  with  drooping  head,  set  mouth,  and 
veiled  eyes  she  was  as  immobile  as  a  statue. 

"We  have  in  our  brotherhood  a  countryman  of  yours. 
I  will  see  him  and  bid  him  sometimes  talk  with  you. 
You  must  eat  by  yourself  in  your  own  room.  Our  order 
is  particular  about  that  rule." 

"I  thank  you  for  your  consideration." 

A  rolling  sound,  like  the  beat  of  a  drum,  suddenly 
echoed  along  the  dim  cloisters,  and  Rosamund,  turning 
her  head,  saw  a  monk  in  the  quadrangle,  holding  in  his 
left  hand  a  narrow  piece  of  wood  about  ten  feet  long, 
and  in  his  right  hand  a  small  hammer.  He  was  striking 
the  wood  in  rhythmical,  regular  manner,  walking  slowly 
in  a  circle  as  the  sound  grew  and  increased  in  intensity. 
Finally  he  struck  the  lathe  one  sharp,  hard  blow,  and 
ended  the  roll-call  abruptly. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  GOD  387 

"It  is  the  hour  of  Compline,  and  I  must  leave  you,  my 
daughter;  but  we  will  pray  for  you  in  the  chapel  this 
evening,  and  I  trust  that  you  will  be  happier  when  you 
have  more  occupation.  Father  Antonio  shall  come  to 
you  to-morrow  and  take  you  to  the  library.  He  is  a 
good  man  and  very  learned.  He  will  help  you  in  your 
choice  of  books  and  he  will  talk  with  you,  if  you  so  wish 
it." 

He  raised  his  hand  in  a  blessing,  and  so  left  Rosa- 
mund, soothed  by  his  quiet  voice  and  kindly  words. 
On  quitting  the  Abbot's  room  she  was  taken  up  another 
staircase  from  the  one  she  had  come  down.  It  was 
winding  and  steep,  and  it  led  into  a  narrow  corridor 
which  looked  as  though  it  were  seldom  used.  Kindly 
hands,  however,  had  lit  the  usual  wood  fire,  and  her 
guide  told  her  that  in  an  hour  or  so  carpets  would  be 
placed  there  and  curtains  hung  before  the  doors. 

The  brilliant  reflected  light  that  is  drawn  up  from  the 
snow  at  once  attracted  her  attention,  and  she  guessed 
that  the  windows  were  in  the  outer  wall  of  the  building. 
Now  she  could  see  for  herself  if  what  the  Abbot  had 
told  her  was  true,  for  she  could  not  conceive  that  in 
three  days  such  snow  should  fall  as  to  isolate  and  cut  off 
a  whole  community.  She  ran  to  the  first  window,  only 
to  draw  back  appalled.  The  whole  world  seemed  lev- 
elled by  the  snow.  Rifts  and  rocks,  even  the  few  scant 
pines,  had  been  wiped  out.  It  was  no  longer  like  living 
among  mountains,  but  like  being  set  in  the  midst  of  a 
vast  plain,  for  as  far  as  she  could  see  down  the  valley  it 
was  one  great  drift. 

For  a  moment  a  childish  fear  tore  at  her  heart  that 
the  snows  might  fall  and  fall  until  the  feathery  masses 
overtopped  the  monastery  and  transformed  what  was 
already  a  tomb  for  the  living  into  a  veritable  grave  for  the 


388        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

dead.  The  strange  terror  died  as  it  was  born,  for  her 
quick  eyes  had  caught  sight  of  a  narrow  path  scarcely 
wide  enough  to  let  two  people  pass.  It  had  evidently 
been  cut  from  a  small  doorway  through  the  white  mass 
which  hedged  it  on  either  side  with  icy  walls  ten  feet 
high.  It  was  but  a  few  yards  long,  and  led  to  what 
looked  like  a  little  billow  among  the  general  flatness, 
pierced  by  a  door  in  which  an  iron  grille  had  been  set. 

"What  is  that  path?"  she  cried  to  her  guide.  "Where 
does  it  lead?" 

The  Father  crossed  himself  reverently  and  in  a  low 
voice  said: 

"That  is  our  morgue.  Here  there  is  not  earth 
enough  to  bury  those  who  have  not  the  right  to  lie  in  the 
vaults  beneath  our  chapel,  and  so — " 

"My  uncle  lies  there?"  asked  Rosamund. 

The  monk  bowed  his  head. 

"Yes.     His  tomb  is  of  snow  and  ice." 

She  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  her  poor  uncle  lying 
in  the  little  building  which  the  snows  had  wrapped  round 
with  an  icy  mantle.  The  cold  had  killed  him  and  the 
cold  would  hold  him  forever. 

The  monk  saw  her  tremble,  and  said: 

"This  side  of  the  house  is  cold.  We  do  not  see  many 
women  here,  and  it  is  two  years  since  a  traveller  of  your 
sex  has  lain  in  these  rooms." 

Then  he  opened  a  door,  and  as  she  entered  her 
apartments  he  shut  it  behind  her,  and  she  was  alone  in 
her  own  domain. 

The  view  from  the  windows  was  quite  different  from 
that  seen  from  the  corridor.  The  rooms  were  comfort- 
ably furnished,  and  the  hearths  were  wide  and  cheerful 
looking.  On  the  high  mantel-shelves  were  quaint  can- 
dlesticks and  vases  like  those  she  had  noticed  in  the 


THE  PRISONER  OF  GOD  389 

Abbot's  room.  A  heavy  oak  table  filled  the  centre  of 
one  room,  and  she  guessed  that  it  was  there  she  was  to 
eat  and  to  live.  The  room  beyond  was  smaller  still,  and 
was  half  filled  by  a  splendid  canopied  bedstead  of  carved 
walnut,  inlaid  with  ebony  and  hung  with  damask  curtains 
of  deep  crimson  and  gold.  Between  the  two  windows 
was  a  praying  chair,  and  on  the  dark  wall  hung  a  deli- 
cately sculptored  ivory  Christ.  A  picture  of  the  Virgin 
was  let  into  the  panel  over  the  fireplace.  The  face  was 
very  sweet  and  womanly,  and  Rosamund  felt  almost  as 
if  a  friend  were  there  waiting  to  greet  her.  At  the  foot 
of  the  bed  a  settle  had  been  placed,  and  two  chairs  and 
a  table,  above  which  hung  an  old  glass  set  in  a  quaint 
frame  of  Italian  metal  work.  A  cedar  chest,  with 
wrought  silver  handles,  filled  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
and  before  the  windows  hung  ample  curtains  of  the  crim- 
son damask. 

She  walked  from  one  room  to  the  other,  noting  with 
her  artistic  eye  the  rare  beauty  of  her  surroundings. 
Then  she  went  back  to  the  .sitting-room,  and  kneeling 
on  the  hearth,  where  the  red  bricks  gave  forth  such  a 
cheerful  heat,  she  busied  herself  for  a  time  deciphering 
the  design  on  the  great  iron  fire  plate.  It  was  Biblical 
and  quaint,  and  distracted  her  until  the  short  day  died 
and  the  fire  grew  low.  She  made  it  up  again  from  the 
large  baskets  of  logs  which  stood  in  either  room.  As 
she  moved  about  once  more,  she  remembered  that  she 
had  never  looked  out  from  her  windows.  It  was  too 
late  now  to  see  anything,  for  the  pallid  night  had  fallen 
and  nothing  was  visible  but  the  strange  gleam  of  the 
snow.  She  tried  to  open  one  of  the  lattices,  but  it  was 
still  stiff  and  would  not  yield  for  some  time.  At  length 
it  gave  way  and  she  thrust  her  hand  out  into  the  air,  but 
drew  it  back  sharply  with  a  cry  of  pain.  It  was  like 


390        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

plunging  it  into  boiling  water,  and  her  skin  tingled  and 
ached  afterwards.  She  fastened  the  window  quickly 
and  drew  the  curtains,  and  with  a  wax  taper  that  she 
found  lit  the  roughly  made  candles  and  set  them  on  the 
table.  Scarcely  had  she  done  so  when  a  voice  told  her 
that  her  supper  was  ready,  and  would  she  take  it  in. 

She  stepped  into  the  corridor,  but  there  must  have 
been  some  hidden  door  there,  for  whoever  had  spoken 
had  disappeared.  On  a  low  table  was  spread  her  meal 
of  steaming  soup  and  bread,  a  piece  of  mutton,  some 
cheese  made  from  goat's  milk,  and  a  flask  of  wine.  She 
carried  the  tray  into  her  room,  and  when  she  had  supped 
set  the  remains  of  her  meal  outside  again. 

Then  she  prayed,  staying  on  her  knees  until  weari- 
ness overcame  her,  and  she  crept  to  her  bed. 

During  the  night,  from  time  to  time,  she  heard  the 
bells  peal  out  from  the  little  pointed  roof  of  the  chapel, 
which  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  quadrangle,  and 
guessed  that  the  monks  were  praying.  It  comforted  her 
in  a  vague  way,  and  gave  her  a  sense  of  companionship 
and  peace. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

FOOTSTEPS  TO   HEAVEN 

WITH  the  first  promise  of  day  Rosamund  rose  and  went 
to  her  window.  The  view  was  so  different  from  what 
she  had  expected  that  a  cry  of  astonishment  broke  from 
her.  Neither  courtyard,  walls,  nor  mountain  path  were 
to  be  seen.  She  looked  straight  out  across  the  wide 
waste  of  a  snow-wrapped  valley  which  lay  nearly  one 
thousand  feet  below  the  vast  crag  on  which  the  monas- 
tery— grey  and  bird-like — was  perched.  Her  window 
overhung  a  precipice  so  sheer  that  instinctively  her  hands 
clutched  at  the  broad  ledge  as  though  to  save  herself 
from  falling  when  she  pressed  her  face  closer  to  the 
small  panes  in  an  effort  to  pierce  the  depths  below. 

Across  the  valley,  and  right  opposite  her  windows,  a 
giant  range  of  mountains,  magnificent  and  awful  in  their 
white  winter  robes,  reared  rugged  heads  against  the  pale 
sky.  From  right  to  left  they  swept — a  lordly  chain  the 
ends  of  which  were  lost  in  pearly  vapours. 

From  their  silent  summits  her  eyes  dropped  again  to 
the  valley.  She  caught  her  breath,  and  a  warm  colour 
dyed  her  pale  cheeks.  Set  in  a  basin,  which  seemed  as 
if  it  had  been  scooped  out  by  a  giant  hand  below  the 
level  of  the  rest  of  the  valley,  was  a  village,  clustering 
about  a  small,  white-domed  mosque. 

She  knew  it  was  a  large  group  of  houses,  for  although 
the  broad-eaved  roofs  were  covered  with  many  feet  of 
snow,  faint  wisps  of  smoke  drifted  over  them  through 


392         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

the  clear  air,  and  she  could  distinguish  narrow  ways  cut 
from  house  to  Chouse,  and  now  and  then  a  tiny  black 
figure  moving  against  the  white  background.  For  a 
brief  moment  the  shock  of  finding  that  she  was  doomed 
to  imprisonment  while  living  within  so  short  a  distance 
of  a  village  teeming  with  life,  freedom,  and  activity, 
made  her  senses  reel.  She  rebelled  furiously  against  the 
declared  necessity  that  she  must  stay  where  she  was, 
until  in  a  flash  of  memory  she  saw  again  the  gaunt  Black 
Cross  and  the  dividing  tracks.  The  narrow  road  which 
she  had  noticed  as  she  came  up  had  trended  to  the  left 
until  it  was  lost  behind  the  low  hill,  must  be  the  only 
approach  to  the  village  in  the  valley  below.  That  road 
would  now  be  lost  beneath  many  feet  of  snow.  With  a 
sigh  she  realised  at  last  that  though  the  monastery  and 
the  hamlet  were  within  view  of  one  another,  they  were 
as  sundered  as  the  poles. 

With  every  moment  the  morning  brightened,  and  the 
faint  clouds,  caught  by  the  wind,  were  wafted  from  the 
head  of  the  valley  into  nothingness.  By  looking  to 
the  right  Rosamund  could  see  as  far  as  where  the  crowd- 
ing mountains  shut  in  the  gorge.  There  it  was  that  her 
eye  caught  a  long  bright  thread  of  falling  water  that 
gleamed  Hke  silver  in  the  sun.  Behjnd  this  solitary 
moving  thing  stretched  a  smooth,  white  plain.  "That 
must  be  a  frozen  lake,"  thought  Rosamund  to  herself. 
"And  that  shaft  of  lonely,  falling  water  must  flow  from 
it  and  feed  a  stream  that  runs  down  the  valley." 

She  strained  her  eyes  to  trace  the  river's  course,  but 
failing,  promised  herself  that  she  would  inquire  from  the 
next  monk  whom  she  saw  whether  her  conjectures  were 
correct. 

Meanwhile  she  was  content  to  stand  at  her  window 
and  try  to  imagine  what  the  prospect  looked  like  in  the 


FOOTSTEPS   TO  HEAVEN  393 

fair  spring  days  and  the  fulness  of  summer  time.  But  at 
last  that  relaxation  palled.  Memories  of  the  shires 
in  soft  April  mornings,  and  the  fair  "Hurst"  gardens  in 
their  full  summer  beauty,  rushed  to  her  mind  and  blurred 
the  landscape  before  her  with  hot,  unshed  tears.  She 
turned  from  the  window  with  a  sigh,  and  stared  aimlessly 
about  the  room  for  something  to  do.  Everything  was 
neat  and  tidy,  for  she  had  nothing  that  could  get  out  of 
place.  With  clasped  hands  and  her  face  set  she  paced 
the  floor,  fighting  wildly  against  the  flood  of  recollections 
that  threatened  to  overwhelm  every  barrier  of  self-control 
that  she  could  raise. 

Suffocating  with  suppressed  sobs,  she  flung  wide  the 
door  of  her  room  and  ran  into  the  corridor  outside. 
Still  the  passion  of  recollection  and  grief  raged  within 
her,  and  she  pressed  her  locked  fingers  against  her 
mouth  till  they  scored  rosy  lines  across  her  white  skin. 
For  a  moment  her  ears  were  filled  with  the  surging  of 
her  own  blood ;  then,  as  the  roar  died  down  and  courage 
came  back  to  her  again,  she  remembered  she  had  per- 
mission to  go  to  the  chapel  when  she  pleased. 

"Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  pray,"  she  thought,  steal- 
ing softly  down  the  stone  stairs  she  had  traversed  the 
previous  day. 

With  timid  hands  a  moment  later  she  pushed  open 
the  heavy  padded  doors  that  shut  the  chapel  off  from 
the  monastery.  One  glance  showed  her  the  place  was 
empty.  Slowly  she  moved  to  the  front  row  of  seats  and 
fell  on  her  knees.  The  heavy  curtain  that  generally  hid 
the  chancel  and  the  brotherhood  from  view  was  pulled 
back,  and  the  high  altar,  rich  in  gilt  marble,  silver  ves- 
sels and  fine  lace,  closed  with  a  blaze  of  gorgeous  colour 
the  dim  vista  of  the  rarely  carved  oak  stalls. 

Mass  had  not  long  been  over,  and  a  faint  cloud  of 


THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

perfumed  incense  still  floated  in  ghostly  wreaths  round 
a  pair  of  chased  metal  lamps  which  swung  on  silver 
chains  from  the  painted  roof.  Down  either  side  of  the 
church  were  deep  alcoves,  filled  with  side  altars  of  many 
coloured  marbles  and  lit  by  narrow  pointed  windows  of 
wonderful  stained  glass.  Above  one  altar,  guarded  by 
glass  and  resting  in  a  narrow  recess,  was  a  jewelled  cas- 
ket, holding,  so  the  words  beneath  it  said,  rare  relics  of 
St.  Francis.  Pictures  of  saints,  set  in  deep  carved  frames, 
hung  above  the  others.  Over  the  high  altar  was  a  deep- 
toned  picture  of  the  Crucifixion,  with  the  Mother  of 
many  Sorrows  weeping  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 

Close  by  Rosamund  was  the  pulpit,  decorated  with 
panels  bearing  on  the  life  and  death  of  the  patron  saint 
of  the  order.  Near  the  door  was  the  font.  It  was  of 
roughly-hewed  stone,  but  crowned  with  a  carved  cover 
fine  as  lacework.  Near  the  chancel  steps  stood  a  coffin- 
shaped  box,  the  four  black  sides  painted  in  white  with 
skulls  and  cross-bones.  It  bore  an  inscription, 
" AujourcT hut  ci  mot,  demain  a  Tot." 

The  roof  was  high  and  dim,  but  as  a  shaft  of  brilliant 
sunshine  pierced  the  rose  window  above  the  high  altar 
it  lit  the  richly-tinted  paintings  that  were  set  there  in 
florid  borderings  of  gilt  plaster  work.  In  the  shifting 
light  the  whole  place  glowed  like  a  multi-coloured  gem, 
and  the  silver  lamps  and  carven  wood,  the  marbles  of 
rose  and  orange,  malachite  green  and  polished  black, 
and  the  embroidered  hangings  of  the  altars  mingled 
their  separate  gorgeousness  into  one  glittering,  exquisite 
whole. 

Rosamund,  with  all  her  nervous  fears  and  longing 
doubts  soothed  by  her  fair  surroundings,  covered  her 
face  and  began  to  pray. 

"Oh!  Mother  of  God,  intercede  for  me!     Oh!  Son  of 


FOOTSTEPS    TO  HEAVEN  395 

God,  grant  me  strength!  The  cup  Thou  still  holdest  to 
my  lips  is  bitter  as  gall.  Grant  in  Thy  mercy  that  it 
may  soon  pass  from  me." 

Who  was  that  who  spoke?  Whose  prayers  crossed  her 
own?  Still  with  covered  eyes  Rosamund  knelt  on,  but 
her  straining  ears,  her  throbbing  senses,  told  her  that 
some  one  was  praying  aloud  in  the  shadow  of  the  high 
altar. 

"Forgive  me,  Mary,  Most  Merciful,  for  my  sin 
against  my  love.  Forgive  me  that  in  blind  ignorance  I 
took  her  troth  and  pledged  her  mine.  Forgive  me  that 
I  was  the  cause  of  such  grief — such  sorrow  as  she  has 
endured — and  ah!  Holy  Mother — Immaculate  of  all  save 
divine  Passion — forgive  me  that  I  love  her  still.  For- 
give! Forgive!  and  when  my  full  pardon  is  accom- 
plished— " 

With  a  muffled  cry  Rosamund  struggled  to  her  feet. 
Her  senses  reeled  as  she  staggered  up  the  chancel  steps. 
The  praying  monk,  roused  by  the  flutter  of  a  sigh,  the 
faint  fall  of  an  unknown  step,  rose,  too,  and  advanced, 
gaunt  and  tall,  into  the  full  flood  of  light  that  bathed  the 
altar. 

"Paul!" 

With  weakly  outstretched  hands  and  steps  that  tot- 
tered, she  advanced  towards  the  silent  figure. 

"Rosamund!" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  her  strength  failed  her,  and 
she  would  have  crashed  to  the  marble  pavement  but  that 
he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  drew  her  to  his  heart. 

"You  live!  You  are  not  a  beautiful  dream!" 

She  could  not  speak — but  for  answer  she  lifted  one 
of  his  hands  and  passed  it  tenderly  over  her  smooth 
cheek. 

"How  did  you  come  here?" 


396        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

She  paused  before  answering,  and  when  she  spoke  it 
was  in  a  low,  awe-struck  voice. 

"Paul!  It  was  the  hand  of  God  that  led  me  back  to 
you." 

Then  a  wave  of  recollection  swept  over  her,  and  she 
cried,  "But  oh!  the  price — the  price  I  have  paid." 

Paul  passed  his  hand  before  his  eyes. 

"Your  uncle?  Was  he  the  traveller  who  died  here  a 
few  days  back — and  were  you  with  him?" 

She  mutely  assented,  for  tears  choked  her  voice. 

"I  only  heard  vaguely  of  it — I  have  been  ill  and  in 
my  cell  for  some  time." 

"You  are  changed!"  she  said,  raising  her  swimming 
eyes  to  his  face. 

"Changed!  my  poor  love- — by  sorrow  and  repentance. 
Ah!  Rosamund,  when  I  remember  all  the  wrong  I  did 
you,  my  grief  has  been  beyond  words.  When  I  think 
that  even  now  I  am  dragging  your  life  into  the  ruin  I 
have  made  of  my  own,  I  see  that  my  sin  is  unpardonable. 
Even  if  you  forgive  me — I  can  never  forgive  myself." 

Shaken  with  emotion,  he  bowed  his  head  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"And  now  that  we  meet  again,"  he  went  on,  "by  a 
freak  of  fate — or  by  God's  good  guidance — your  pres- 
ence— your  voice — your  very  faithfulness  are  like  new 
lashes  on  an  ever-open  wound.  Truly,  this  should  be 
the  end — for  my  punishment  is  greater  than  I  can  bear. " 

With  outstretched,  trembling  hands  he  turned  to  the 
high  altar. 

"Christ — help  me!  Guide  me!  I  am  lost  in  sor- 
row!" 

Softly  her  hand  slipped  round  his  throat,  warm  and 
sweet  between  his  flesh  and  the  coarse  habit;  gently  her 
voice  whispered  in  his  ear  until  his  grief  died  down. 


FOOTSTEPS    TO  HEAVEN  397 

"Paul — dearest  Paul — God  has  helped  you — God  has 
been  very  good  to  us  both.  We  have  been  tried ;  He 
knows  how  much — but  our  probation  is  overpast,  and  we 
are  together  once  more." 

Paul  lifted  his  worn  face  to  hers. 

"But  the  bar — I  cannot — dare  not — overlook  that. " 

Rosamund  laid  her  face  close  against  his. 

"Dearest — I  told  you  God  had  been  good  to  us.  She 
who  was  your  wife  is  dead.  You  are  a  free  man  in  the 
sight  of  heaven  and  earth." 

"Free!  Free!" 

"I  only  knew  it  myself  a  little  while  back.  How 
little  I  thought  I  should  ever  meet  you — when  I  read 
the  few  words  that  told  me  the  news." 

With  the  love-light  growing  in  his  eyes  he  rose  and 
took  her  in  his  arms. 

"My  love!  My  wife!" 

He  bent  his  mouth  close  to  hers,  but  she,  with  a  quick 
movement,  slipped  her  hand  between  them  across  his 
lips. 

"Not  here,  Paul!     Not  in  this  sacred  place!" 

"All  shall  be  as  you  ordain,"  he  answered  humbly, 
loosing  her  from  his  arms.  "You  have  given  me  back 
love,  freedom,  life — you  shall  do  with  me  as  you  please." 

She  placed  her  hand  in  his. 

"Paul,  let  us  kneel  here  and  pray  for — her  soul!" 

As  they  sank  together  on  their  knees  he  murmured, 

"And  for  our  own — and  for  our  happy  future. " 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

THE   MONK'S  STORY 

THE  violent  emotions  of  the  morning  had  their  revenge 
on  Rosamund,  and  left  her  for  the  time  being  almost 
incapable  of  consecutive  thought,  and  merely  the  weak 
victim  of  thrills  and  physical  emotions. 

She  was  glad,  therefore,  when,  after  her  simple  mid- 
day meal,  a  voice  outside  her  door  apprised  her  that 
Father  Antonio  was  ready  to  show  her  to  the  library. 
He  proved  to  be  a  round,  jolly-looking  little  man,  who 
had  sufficient  fat  on  his  bones  to  keep  even  the  cold 
of  that  fearful  climate  out  of  them.  He  talked  in 
a  chirrupy  voice.  When  in  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion he  learned  that  she  knew  his  beloved  Italy  by 
heart,  his  round  face  beamed  with  delight,  and  so  far 
as  his  vows  permitted  he  became  at  once  her  humble 
slave. 

The  library  was  a  fine  square  room  with  windows  on 
two  sides  of  it.  One  set  overlooked  the  cloisters 
and  quadrangle;  the  other  had  the  same  view  down 
that  sheer,  awful  precipice  into  the  mountain  valley  that 
Rosamund  could  see  from  her  own  room.  Bookcases, 
protected  with  wire  screens,  surrounded  the  entire  room. 
They  were  beautifully  ornamented  along  the  top  with 
carved  figures  of  saints,  while  the  doorways  were  edged 
with  religious  symbols  and  surmounted  by  groups  of 
cherubs'  heads.  The  big  fire  that  burnt  on  the  brass 
dogs  had  drawn  out  a  pleasant,  warm  smell  of  leather, 

398 


THE  MONK'S  STORT  399 

and  was  striking  a  thousand  twinkling  stars  from  the 
shining  wires. 

"I  am  the  librarian,"  said  Father  Antonio,  proudly, 
as  he  drew  from  his  girdle  a  bunch  of  little  keys,  "and 
you  have  only  to  tell  me  what  books  you  would  like  to 
read  and  you  shall  have  them." 

With  a  growing  sense  of  calm  happiness  and  well- 
being  Rosamund  strolled  leisurely  round  the  room,  peep- 
ing through  the  crossway  bars  of  wire  at  the  backs  of 
the  books.  The  titles  of  many  of  them  were  undeciph- 
erable to  her,  for  there  were  works  in  Russian  and 
Turkish  and  sundry  offshoots  of  the  Slav  tongue,  but  to 
make  up  for  that  there  were  many  famous  books  in 
French  and  Italian,  and  tucked  away  in  one  corner  some 
old  favourites  of  hers  in  German.  There  were  histories 
of  the  Church,  its  rise  and  its  struggles  and  its  success 
in  Bulgaria  and  the  Balkan  peninsula.  There  were  books, 
too,  about  the  very  country  she  was  in,  Albania,  and 
records  of  that  wonderful  spot,  Mount  Athos,  which  is 
dotted  with  monasteries,  and  where  the  foot  of  anything 
that  is  created  female  has  never  been  permitted  to  fall. 

"You  may  read  here  in  the  morning  and  afternoon," 
said  the  father,  as  he  unlocked  the  case  she  indicated 
and  drew  her  down  some  books.  "And  our  good  Abbot 
gave  leave  for  you  to  take  some  reading  to  your  rooms 
with  you.  He  fears  your  health  might  suffer  if  you  give 
too  much  time  to  thought." 

Rosamund  took  an  armful  of  books  and  drew  a  big 
chair  up  to  the  casement  that  gave  on  to  the  air  and  on 
to  the  mountains.  Father  Antonio,  doubtless  by  virtue 
of  his  office,  remained  in  the  library,  softly  moving  about 
in  his  goatskin  shoes,  rearranging  the  contents  of  some 
glass-covered  tables  of  curios  and  old  coins  or  fluttering 
the  pages  of  a  book.  All  was  peace  in  the  warm,  com- 


400         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

fortable  room,  yet  Rosamund  read  but  little.  The 
change  of  scene  and  atmosphere,  the  knowledge  that 
this  new  ground  was  to  be  almost  as  her  own  territory, 
were  all  pleasant  to  her.  She  was  content  to  lay  the 
books  upon  her  knee  and  fold  her  hands  over  them,  and 
look  about  her  at  the  carved  saints  above  the  bookcases 
and  at  the  rude  picture  of  the  holy  St.  Francis  that  hung 
above  the  high  mantel-shelf. 

A  great  peace  had  fallen  on  her — peace  and  happiness 
so  completely  satisfying,  so  intense,  that  she  did  not 
even  seek  to  examine  or  recall  their  origin.  She  lulled 
herself  with  the  mere  consciousness  that  all  was  well 
with  him  and  with  herself,  and  for  the  moment  that  was 
enough. 

Yet  after  a  time  it  grew  upon  her  senses  that  the 
librarian  was  very  restless.  He  heaved  big  sighs, 
unlocked  and  opened  with  considerable  noise  glass  case 
after  glass  case,  re-arranged  and  disarranged  their  con- 
tents, muttered  to  himself,  and  behaved  like  a  person 
who  is  desirous  of  opening  a  conversation. 

"Perhaps  he  wants  to  talk  to  me,"  thought  Rosa- 
mund. She  thrust  her  formless  dreams  aside  with  her 
books,  and  rising  looked  from  the  window  out  on  to  the 
wintry  world. 

"What  a  strange  place  this  is!  It  seems  wonderful 
that,  with  so  many  fairer  spots  in  the  world,  people  should 
ever  have  thought  of  living  here." 

Father  Antonio  bustled  to  her  side.  His  face  beamed 
with  delight,  and  in  his  hands  were  several  worn  old 
copies  and  shapeless  pieces  of  metal. 

"Ah!"  he  cried  gaily,  "the  signorina  speaks  as  do  all 
strangers  who  have  ever  set  foot  in  this  wild  spot. 
It  is  indeed  past  understanding,  but  to  us — to  all  the 
Church,  indeed — this  is  a  sacred  spot,  bound  up  with  the 


THE  MONK^S  STORT  401 

earliest  history  of  our  faith  and  consecrated  by  the 
blood  of  many  martyrs. " 

The  monk  looked  quite  eagerly  at  Rosamund. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  something  of  the  story  of  the  famous 
monastery  of  Chatista?  For  it  is  famous,  alike  in  Chris- 
tian and  pagan  annals." 

"I  shall  be  pleased  if  you  will,"  answered  the  girl, 
sweetly. 

Father  Antonio  motioned  her  back  to  her  chair,  and 
drew  one  close  to  it  for  himself. 

"Chatista's  monastery  was  not  the  first  building 
that  man's  hands  hung  on  the  lip  of  this  terrific  preci- 
pice. In  that  brilliant  era  when  Greek  art  and  arms 
ruled  so  much  of  the  Eastern  world,  a  great  general,  in 
honour  of  a  victory  won  in  the  valley  below  over  a  horde 
of  savage  people,  raised  here  a  small  temple  to  the  God 
of  war.  It  was  at  once  a  place  of  worship  and  a  watch 
tower,  for  here  in  my  glass  cases  are  fragments  of  pottery 
utensils  and  arms  which  tell  us  that  a  camp  was  pitched 
close  here. 

"Here,  too,  have  been  found  coins  and  votive  tablets 
of  a  later  date  and  Roman  make.  Think  what  a  fight 
must  have  raged  up  here,  with  what  a  crash  the  dead  and 
dying  must  have  fallen  into  the  valley  below  before  the 
Romans  wrested  the  pass  from  the  Greeks.  The  temple 
of  Mars  was  destroyed  as  well,  and  on  virgin  ground — 
the  spot  where  the  morgue  now  stands  (indeed,  that  is 
built  from  some  of  the  self-same  stones) — the  conquer- 
ing legions  of  Rome  built  a  temple  to  Jupiter. 

"The  Romans  subjugated  the  wild  people  of  the 
mountains  better  than  the  Greeks  had  done — for  among 
my  treasures  here,  and  mingled  with  the  remains  of  the 
Romans,  are  many  rough-hewn  offerings  brought  to  the 
temple  as  propitiatory  sacrifices  against  the  avalanches 


402        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

and  floods  which  from  the  world's  beginning  have  from 
time  to  time  devastated  these  mountain  valleys." 

Father  Antonio  dropped  his  handful  of  rough  coins 
into  Rosamund's  lap. 

"See!  here  are  moneys  and  tokens  of  the  time  of  the 
great  Alexander,  Lysimachus  and  Mithridates,  Juba, 
two  of  the  Ptolemys,  the  beautiful  Cleopatra,  Julius 
Caesar,  Dionysius — a  score  of  mighty  rulers." 

He  opened,  without  rising,  a  case  at  his  elbow. 

"Look  at  these  rings — those  of  gold — and  these  arm- 
lets are  of  metal  the  mixture  of  which  we  do  not  know. 
That  is  an  altar  lamp — this  is  part  of  a  necklace;  the 
beads  are  of  glass.  Here  is  a  hand — cast  in  bronze,  and 
the  snake  that  twines  about  the  ring  finger  is  pure  gold. 
Those  statuettes  are  bronze." 

He  locked  down  the  glass  cover  again. 

"They  made  a  road — those  fine  Roman  fellows — a 
road  that  centuries  later,  when  Jupiter's  little  temple 
was  crumbling  to  ruins,  many  of  the  Crusaders  from  the 
centre  of  Europe  travelled  on  their  way  to  Palestine. 
Then  was  a  shelter  first  built  here  for  those  same  war- 
riors, and  then  began  the  period  of  bloodshed  and  fire 
which,  through  the  Middle  Ages,  won  for  Argentalia  the 
name  of  the  Death  Mountain." 

The  monk  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"It  was  in  the  time  of  that  most  Christian  monarch, 
Charlemagne  of  France,  that  His  Holiness  Pope  Adrian  I. 
granted  permission  for  a  retreat  and  house  of  refuge. 
The  tribes — a  furious  people — took  umbrage,  and  the 
first  members  of  the  brotherhood  were  burnt  with  their 
house.  Under  the  protection  of  arms  another  small 
monastery  was  built,  only  to  meet  a  century  later  with 
the  same  fate.  But  at  that  time  God  worked  out  his 


THE  MONK'S  STORT  403 

'own  vengeance.  Over  a  thousand  men  and  women,  with 
their  herds  and  huts,  were  destroyed  by  a  mighty  flood." 

"A  flood!"  said  Rosamund. 

The  monk  pointed  from  the  window  to  the  right, 
where  the  silver  thread  of  falling  water  emerged  from 
the  silent,  level  plain  of  snow.  "Up  there,  where  the 
snow  lies  so  smoothly,  is  a  lake.  It  is  fair  and  blue  as 
the  skies  in  summer,  and  the  stream  that  flows  from  it 
waters  the  whole  valley. 

"Records  that  have  been  preserved  through  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  the  monastery  relate  that  once,  where 
the  lake  now  lies,  only  a  narrow  torrent  raced  between 
the  spurs  of  the  mountains.  It  was  so  rapid  that  it  had 
never  been  known  to  freeze  altogether.  But  during  the 
winter  that  followed  the  outrages  on  God's  ordained 
servants,  a  glacier — the  Black  Glacier,  as  it  is  called — 
which  lies  on  the  other  side  of  the  double  peaks,  flung, 
week  by  week,  huge  masses  of  ice  down  into  the  gorge. 
With  unceasing  regularity  they  fell,  crashing  with  a 
hideous  sound  upon  the  rocks,  and  by  the  force  of  their 
own  weight  building  an  impenetrable  wall  across  the  bed 
of  the  stream.  Held  back  by  the  barrier,  the  prisoned 
waters  rose  and  grew  to  an  enormous  lake,  which,  when 
the  spring  came  and  fed  it  with  streams  of  melting  snow 
and  avalanches  and  heavy  rains,  swelled  to  a  vast  size, 
till  one  night  the  mighty  wall,  weakened  by  the  weight 
of  water,  gave  way,  and  the  enormous  lake  surged 
through  the  valley,  carrying  trees  and  rocks,  houses  and 
cattle  upon  its  broad  bosom.  The  torrent  destroyed 
many  villages,  and  even  Rosega,  which  you  know,  was 
annihilated." 

Father  Antonio  nodded. 

"After  that  the  tribes,  wild  men  from  the  steppes  and 


404        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

wandering  bands  of  lawless  people  from  Hungary  and 
the  Carpathians,  left  the  good  monks  in  peace,  save 
once,  when  a  bishop  and  his  suite  were  murdered  on  the 
spot  where  the  Black  Cross  now  stands.  A  splendid 
church  was  built  here,  and  the  Pope  sent  delegates  to 
consecrate  it.  It  became  a  treasure  house,  filled  with 
gold  and  silver  and  many  fair  things.  Then  Turkey — 
ever  greedy  and  rapacious — and  seeking  everywhere  the 
wherewithal  to  pay  her  vast  armies — cast  eyes  this  way, 
and  again  the  flames  licked  the  skies  and  the  red  blood 
of  martyred  men  flowed  down  the  mountain  side." 

"How  cruel!" 

"It  was  a  cruelty  that  lasted  until  the  State  gave 
reluctant  consent  to  Christians  to  make  abiding  places 
and  to  convert.  You  know,  however,  that  only  the 
Catholic  Church  is  tolerated.  The  Greek  Church  is 
tabooed,  and  no  Mussulman — if  he  would  live  at  peace 
with  his  neighbours  and  the  State — may  join  it." 

"And  lately  the  monastery  has  flourished?" 

Father  Antonio  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Yes!  thanks  be  to  God.  But  we  never  leave  our 
door  unless  we  carry  arms.  The  gipsies  are  a  lawless 
and  a  savage  crew — and  the  villagers  in  these  mountains, 
though  they  take  our  charity,  and,  when  it  suits  them, 
are  baptised  and  worship  in  the  chapel  here,  are  treach- 
erous." 

The  loud  drumming  summons  to  Compline  sounded. 
Father  Antonio,  fussily  jingling  his  keys,  began  to  lock 
away  his  treasures  and  books. 

"Which  book  may  I  take  with  me?"  asked  Rosa- 
mund. 

"Whichever  you  like,"  he  answered,  nodding  cheer- 
fully at  her. 

She  looked  at  the  three  or  four  she  held. 


THE  MONK'S  STORY  405 

"It  shall  be  this,  I  think,"  and  she  selected  a  work 
on  Rome,  which,  though  it  was  little  more  than  an  his- 
torical guide-book,  she  knew  would  revive  pleasant 
memories  of  the  past. 

''A  good  book,  a  good  book,"  chirruped  Father 
Antonio.  "You  do  well  to  read  it."  Then  as  he  put 
away  the  others  and  locked  them  up  he  said,  "Are  you 
going  to  High  Mass  to-morrow  morning?" 

"Is  to-morrow  Sunday?"  queried  Rosamund. 

"Yes,  it  is.     You  have  been  here  almost  a  week." 

"How  quickly  the  time  has  gone,"  murmured  Rosa- 
mund, thoughtfully,  "and  yet  it  seems  ages  since — " 

Father  Antonio  assumed  a  sympathetic  expression. 

"God  is  very  merciful.  He  puts  a  great , sorrow  a 
very  long  way  off  in  a  few  days.  But  shall  I  fetch  you 
in  time  for  High  Mass?" 

"If  you  please.  I  should  like  to  go  and  hear  the 
music." 

The  little  monk  rubbed  his  hands. 

"Ah!  the  music  is  beautiful  here.  We  are  nearly  all 
Italians  in  this  place.  We  cannot  help  but  sing,  we 
sons  of  Italy,  and  your  countryman,  too,  has  a  rare 
voice.  I  will  fetch  you  in  good  time,  but  you  must 
wear  a  warm  cloak,  for  the  chapel  is  cold  these  days. 
Can  you  find  your  way  back  to  your  rooms?" 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Rosamund,  and  with  her  book 
under  her  arm  and  a  brighter  expression  in  her  pale 
face,  she  walked  through  the  corridors  in  the  direction 
of  her  own  rooms. 

As  she  went  she  remembered  that  the  Abbot  had  told 
her  that  she  might  take  exercise  in  the  gallery  beyond 
the  one  outside  her  door.  Every  one  was  in  the  chapel 
now;  she  could  almost  fancy  she  heard  the  organ  peal- 
ing. The  monastery  was  as  quiet  as  the  tomb  it  really 


406        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

was.  Feeling  sure  that  she  would  meet  no  one,  she  ran 
with  fleet  steps  into  the  corridor  that  was  at  right  angles 
to  her  own.  She  found  that  its  windows  overlooked  the 
cloisters,  and  she  was  standing  at  one  of  them  looking 
down  into  the  courtyard,  where  the  snow  was  piled  high 
against  the  pediments  of  the  supporting  pillars,  when 
she  remembered  what  Father  Antonio  had  said  about  the 
windows  in  the  library. 

"I  must  try  to  remember  not  to  look  out  here,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "I  must  keep  faith  with  them,  for  they 
are  being  so  good  and  so  kind  to  me.  " 

She  wal'ked  on  till  she  found  her  way  barred  by  a  tall, 
carved  screen,  reaching  from  the  floor  nearly  to  the 
raftered  Ceiling.  It  was  of  olive  wood  and  the  colour 
and  texture  of  gold  satin.  It  was  delicately  wrought 
with  leaves  and  flowers  and  little  figures  of  animals  and 
people.  Two  cerrturies  ago  a  dreamy  monk  had  con- 
ceived it  and  had  carved  it.  A  scroll  was  woven  through 
the  branches  of  the  mimic  trees,  and  on  it  was  graven 
"Paradise." 

Rosamund  knew  then  that  beyond  it  lay  the  monks' 
quarters  in  the  monastery,  and  the  carved  legend  set 
her  wondering  if  the  maker  had  labelled  the  monastical 
side  with  the  name  of  Paradise,  or  whether  he  had 
intended  the  word  as  a  description  of  that  part  of  the 
building  which  was  free  to  all  comers  as  the  air  itself. 

She  leaned  against  the  screen  for  some  time,  tracing 
with  the  tip  of  one  slender  finger  the  quaintly  designed 
animals,  the  many  graceful  olive  leaves,  and  the  beautiful 
pomegranate  flowers  which  were  mingled  so  incon- 
gruously. 

As  she  stood  with  a  happy  smile  flitting  now  and  then 
across  her  face,  the  sweet  wail  of  a  tenderly  touched 
violin  floated  like  a  spirit  sigh  through  the  barren 


THE  MONK'S  STORY  407 

silence.  It  thrilled  her  with  intensest  joy,  and  she 
pressed  closer  to  the  screen  and  turned  her  head  that 
she  might  catch  every  throb  of  sound. 

"It  is  Paul!  Ah!  how  good  God  has  been  to  bring 
us  together  once  more — to  let  us  meet  in  a  hcuse  devoted 
to  his  worship  and  praise." 

She  did  not  voice  her  gratitude,  but  it  welled  higher 
and  higher  in  her  heart  and  winged  heavenwards  in  the 
breath  of  the  music. 

How  sweet  it  all  was — an  impassioned  melody  of 
Gounod's — a  plain,  solemn  chant  by  Palestrina — an 
intricate  passage  by  Bach — a  grand  phrase  from  Beetho- 
ven— all  like  pearls  strung  together  on  a  golden  chain  of 
delicious  modulations  and  exquisite  cadences. 

When  silence  fell  once  more  she  still  leaned  by  the 
carven  screen  and  was  filled  with  a  great  content.  By- 
and-bye  she  heard  in  the  distance  footsteps  and  voices. 
The  monks  were  leaving  the  chapel  and  going  to  their 
cells.  She,  too,  made  for  her  own  rooms,  meeting  as  she 
went  Father  Antonio.  As  he  greeted  her  he  glanced 
from  the  corridor  window  and  remarked  in  his  garrulous 
fashion : 

"It  is  going  to  be  a  fearful  winter,  and  there  is  some 
more  snow  to  come."  He  pointed  up  to  the  patch  of 
sky  which  hung  over  the  quadrangle.  "That  silvery 
look  which  seems  as  if  the  sky  had  drawn  a  veil  across 
her  blue  face  always  means  snow.  The  heavens  will  be 
dark  grey  by  sundown,  and  to-night  the  snows  will  fall 
again." 

His  words  brought  back  to  Rosamund  all  the  terrors 
of  her  fearful  journey.  With  her  heart  full  of  thankful- 
ness that  this  time  at  least  when  the  snows  came  she 
would  be  safely  housed,  warmed,  and  with  good  friends, 
she  bade  the  monk  good  evening  and  entered  her  room. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 

IN  THE  LIBRARY 

FOR  the  next  three  days,  although  Rosamund  went  to  the 
chapel  and  the  library,  she  did  not  see  Paul.  Yet  she 
was  not  disappointed  or  unhappy.  She  had  endured  so 
many  weary  months  of  heart  pain  after  she  knew  her  mar- 
riage with  him  was  impossible,  she  had  been  for  so  long 
schooling  herself  to  believe  him  dead  to  her  and  his  love 
nothing  but  a  sad  memory,  that  the  certainty  of  his  wel- 
fare and  whereabouts  were  enough  joy  for  her. 

Already  he  had  been  assured  of  his  freedom  and  of 
her  faithfulness — and  in  her  trusting  mind  a  few  speeches 
more  or  less  could  make  no  difference.  During  the 
many  hours  she  now  devoted  to  thought  she  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  Paul,  too,  might  see  matters  from 
the  same  standpoint.  She  was  the  more  surprised  there- 
fore when,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day,  he  came 
quietly  into  the  library. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  place  she  had  established  for 
herself  near  the  window  that  overlooked  the  valley. 
Though  all  the  view  was  monotonously  white,  and  fre- 
quently the  whole  landscape  was  blurred  with  blinding 
snow-storms,  it  gave  her  almost  a  sense  of  physical 
freedom  and  exercise  to  travel  with  her  eyes  the  great 
gorge  that  fell  so  gradually  from  where  the  lake  lay  in 
icy  silence  to  the  low  round  hill  which  marked  the  track 
to  Rosega  and  the  great  Cross. 

As  usual  her  eyes  were  staring  more  at  the  scene  than 
408 


IN  THE  LIBRART  409 

at  the  volume  on  her  knee  when  she  heard  Paul's  voice 
addressing  Father  Antonio.  She  tried  hard  to  keep  calm 
as  he  presently  came  over  to  her  and  in  Italian  asked 
after  her  health  and  inquired  what  book  she  was  read- 
ing. But  the  love-light  would  shine  in  her  dewy  eyes 
and  a  faint  flush  flare  for  a  moment  on  her  cheeks. 

After  a  moment's  pause  he  drew  a  chair  close  to  hers. 
"It  has  been  such  a  struggle  to  keep  from  you  the  last 
few  days,  but  I  thought  it  best.  It  has  given  us  both 
time  to  think.  Tell  me,  dearest,  that  you  are  not  angry 
with  me." 

She  replied,  as  he  had  spoken,  low  and  in  English. 

"I  have  known  that  you  were  here.  That  has 
sufficed." 

"Trusting  and  faithful  as  ever,  dear  heart." 

"Have  I  not  been  rewarded,  Paul?  But  see,  here  is 
what  I  promised  to  show  you.  Please  read  it,  and  then 
never  let  us  speak  of  her  again." 

Paul  read  twice  or  thrice  the  scrap  of  paper  Rosa- 
mund had  cut  from  the  Times. 

"That  is  done  with,  thank  God!"  He  crumpled  the 
paper  between  his  fingers.  "Let  us  talk,  dear,  of  your- 
self. My  story  you  know.  Tell  me  yours. " 

So  that  afternoon  she  unveiled  the  past  to  him,  not 
dwelling  on  her  own  grief  at  his  loss,  and  passing  over 
with  but  a  few  words  Lord  St.  Ives'  proposal  and  her 
aunt's  death.  Rather  did  she  talk  of  her  travels  and  the 
sights  she  had  seen.  She  told  him,  too,  with  honest 
eyes  and  unfaltering  lips,  of  Hugh  Eraser's  devotion. 

"I  like  to  tell  you  that,"  she  said,  simply.  "He  was 
a  good  man." 

"Who  could  help  being  good  to  you?"  was  all  Paul 
said. 

Then  she  spoke  of  Matia  and  his  betrayal,  of  the 


410        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

awful  night  on  the  mountain  side,  of  her  terrors  and 
fears.  She  grew  so  pale  at  the  recollection  that  Paul 
stayed  her  words. 

"Dearest,  you  must  forget  these  things.  Look  for- 
ward and  not  back. ' ' 

She  smiled  faintly  at  him  through  the  tears  of  self- 
pity  her  own  words  had  brought  to  her  eyes. 

"I  am  hopeful,  dear,  but  they  say  the  winter  will  be 
very  long." 

Father  Antonio,  who  had  been  drowsing  by  the  fire, 
drew  near  them,  and  Paul,  to  cover  Rosamund's  confu- 
sion, cried  lightly  to  the  good  man : 

"The  signorina  is  grieving  that  the  winter  will  be  so 
long." 

"Then,  Brother  Paul,  we  must  devise  means  to  pass 
the  days  for  her." 

With  his  head  on  one  side  he  regarded  her  with  twink- 
ling, beady  eyes. 

"The  signorina  should  study.  She  speaks  Italian  so 
well — and  French,  I  dare  say — that  the  trick  of  languages 
should  be  easy  to  her.  Why  not  learn  Turkish?  When 
the  spring  comes  and  the  signorina  leaves  us,  she  will 
find  it  useful  on  her  travels." 

"Will  you  be  my  master,  good  Father?"  asked  Rosa- 
mund. 

The  fat  monk  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"My  own  language,  with  French  and  Latin  for  my 
prayers,  have  ever  been  enough  for  me,  but  there  is  a 
fine  Turkish  scholar  here — rough-mannered,  perhaps — 
but  you  will  learn  quickly  from  him." 

"Do  you  mean  Father  Ludovic?"  queried  Paul. 

"Yes,  brother,  the  same.  He  is  a  strange  man — but 
good  at  heart,  good  at  heart." 

Father  Antonio  returned  to  the  fire  and  his  doze. 


Itf  THE  LIBRARY  411 

"That  is  a  good  idea,  dearest,"  said  Paul.  "Above 
all  things  you  must  have  occupation  here.  Last  winter 
I  should  have  gone  mad  if  it  had  not  been  for  my 
music." 

Rosamund  smiled  at  him. 

"It  was  you,  then,  playing  the  violin  the  other  after- 
noon. My  heart  told  me  so. " 

"You  heard  me!     Why,  where  were  you?" 

"Close — very  close  to  the  screen  of  olive  wood." 

Paul  nodded  his  head. 

"Ah!  that  saved  another  man.  All  the  beautiful 
things  you  see  here — the  carvings  and  tooled  leathers,  the 
paintings  and  the  rugs,  have  all  been  made  by  men  who 
found  in  their  work  more  consolation  than  in  their  God. 
The  long  periods  of  isolation — sometimes  even  worse — 
that  befall  the  dwellers  in  these  mountain  monasteries 
render  even  religious  exercises  a  mental  torture,  and 
physical  enjoyment  is  necessary  to  the  health,  or  the 
sanity,  of  many  who  come  here.  Yes!  last  year  my 
violin  and  a  little  carving  saved  me.  This  year  I 
have— you!' ' 

"But  you  will  not  desert  your  music?  It  sounds  so 
sweet  among  these  picturesque  old  surroundings." 

"If  it  pleases  you — I  shall  play  every  day." 

''And  to  please  you — and  so  that  you  may  know  I  am 
not  drifting  into  idleness — I  shall  try  and  learn  Turkish. " 

"But  your  fingers  must  work,  too.  I  will  speak  to 
our  steward.  He  is  a  most  kindly  man.  You  used  to 
work  so  much  in  those  dear  Midshire  days.  Would  you 
not  like  to  make  yourself  a  cloak  and  gown?" 

With  the  prettiest  blush  of  confusion  Rosamund 
looked  down  at  herself  and  carefully  considered  her 
appearance.  Her  cloth  skirt,  which  had  been  cut  short 
to  a  nicety  for  walking  and  climbing,  now  seemed  in  her 


412        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

eyes  ridiculously  curtailed.  Already  the  edges  of  the 
sleeves  of  her  coat  were  worn,  and  she  had  a  rent  in  one 
elbow  that  she  had  acquired  during  those  last  few  hours 
on  the  mountain.  The  warm  woollen  waistcoat  that  she 
had  donned  for  the  last  stages  of  her  journey  she  had 
managed  to  wash  in  her  own  room,  but  her  efforts  on 
her  linen  collar  had  proved  quite  fruitless,  and  she  had 
supplied  its  absence  by  a  knotted  handkerchief. 

"I'm  very  shabby,  I'm  afraid." 

Paul  smiled. 

"You  are  as  true  a  woman  in  little  things  as  in  greater 
ones.  But  you  will  be  warmer  in  a.  woollen  gown,  and 
you  need  some  goatskin  shoes  instead  of  those  thick 
boots." 

He  cast  a  look  at  Father  Antonio,  quietly  snoring  in 
the  red  glow  of  the  hearth.  Then  he  leaned  forward  and 
took  her  hand  in  his. 

"Darling — you  will  so  soon  now  be  all  my  own  that 
I  feel  I  must  care  for  you  as  I  would  for  myself." 

The  call  to  the  chapel  sounded. 

"Farewell  for  to-day.  In  an  hour  you  will  hear  me 
playing  to  you." 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

THE   BLOOD   FEUD 

WHEN  next  Rosamund  went  to  the  library  she  looked  as 
fair  as  one  of  Mary's  own  lilies.  She  had  sewn  for  her- 
self a  straight  falling  gown  of  the  white  woollen  stuff 
the  peasants  make  for  their  own  use.  A  long  hooded 
cloak  of  the  same  material  hung  from  her  shoulders. 
Her  feet  were  shod  in  soft,  white  buskins,  and  her  hair 
rippled  and  waved  into  a  heavy  coil  at  the  back  of  her 
neck. 

"Santa  Madonna!  but  she  is  beautiful!"  ejaculated 
Father  Antonio. 

In  Paul's  eyes  she  looked  like  a  queen  or  a  saint. 

A  third  monk  was  present  that  day— Father  Ludovic, 
the  Turkish  scholar.  He  was  a  gaunt,  ascetic-looking 
man,  and  the  sparseness  of  his  figure  was  enhanced  by 
the  folds  of  his  coarse  habit  that  looked  as  though  it 
were  hanging  on  a  mere  skeleton.  The  bones  of  the 
forehead  and  the  cheeks  were  painfully  sharp,  and 
the  eyes  that  glittered  in  the  sunken  sockets  were  like 
live  coals. 

For  a  moment  Rosamund  allowed  the  Father's  looks  to 
dominate  her  feelings,  but  Paul  had  said  he  was  a  good- 
hearted  though  strange  man,  and  she  conquered  herself 
and  smiled  sweetly  into  his  dark,  stern  face. 

"Father  Ludovic  is  glad  to  have  a  pupil,"  said  Paul. 

"You  will  find  you  have  set  yourself  a  very  difficult 
task,"  said  the  grim  father.  "It  really  takes  years  to 

413 


41 4        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

understand  the  language.  You  will  get  but  a  smattering 
of  it  during  the  time  that  you  are  here." 

"At  least  it  will  pass  the  time  for  me.  My  reading 
till  now  has  been  very  purposeless,  and  I  find  the  even- 
ings are  long." 

"The  signorina  does  well  to  make  use  of  the  hours," 
murmured  the  dark  monk,  taking  down  some  books  from 
an  upper  shelf  and  bringing  them  to  a  table  near  the 
fire. 

They  made  a  strange  group  in  the  glow  of  the  logs, 
round-faced  Father  Antonio,  drowsing  over  a  small 
case  of  his  favourite  coins,  the  swarthy  Ludovic,  with 
his  fierce  eyes  and  guttural  voice,  Paul,  with  a  smile 
flitting  from  time  to  time  across  his  handsome  face  and  a 
neglected  book  in  his  hand.  And  amidst  these  brown- 
frocked  monks  sat  Rosamund,  with  her  white  draperies 
falling  about  her  and  her  delicate  brows  crinkled  with 
anxiety  and  attention. 

All  was  quiet  and  peaceful  in  the  room.  Only  Father 
Antonio  breathed  heavily  now  and  again,  and  the  logs 
crackled  and  spluttered  on  the  hearth. 

Suddenly,  through  the  intense  stillness,  the  sharp  ring 
of  a  shot  tore  the  air.  The  monks  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened, but  Rosamund  was  ignorant  even  of  whence  the 
sound  had  come  till  she  caught  sight  of  a  tiny  puff  of 
blue  smoke  floating  lazily  across  the  street  of  the  village 
below.  Some  one  had  fired  a  shot  down  there.  She 
leaned  a  little  forward,  pressing  her  forehead  against  the 
icy  cold  window.  Another  and  another  puff  of  smoke 
floated  out,  followed  a  second  later  by  the  hiss  of  a  shot. 
Against  the  universal  whiteness  she  caught  sight  of  two 
or  three  figures  running  in  mad  haste  across  the  village 
street.  A  door  was  flung  wide,  and  a  man  who  by  his 
gait  she  guessed  to  be  old  and  slow  of  movement,  stag- 


THE  BLOOD  FEUD  415 

gered  out  into  the  road.  Once  more  a  shot  was  fired, 
and  the  old  man,  flinging  up  his  arms,  fell  forward  on 
his  face,  a  dark  figure  silhouetted  against  the  spotless 
ground.  For  a  moment  Rosamund  could  scarcely  realise 
what  had  happened.  It  was  all  so  far  away,  although 
yet  within  sight,  that  she  felt  as  though  she  had  been 
watching  a  scene  in  a  play.  But  a  moment  or  two  later 
she  drew  back  with  a  sharp  cry  from  the  window,  for 
from  beneath  the  black  shadow  of  the  body,  something 
that  was  red  crept  and  slipped  like  a  snake  over  the 
white  snow. 

"Ah!  they  have  shot  him!"  she  cried,  speaking  Eng- 
lish in  her  excitement. 

"It  is  the  Blood  Feud,"  said  Father  Ludovic.  "It 
has  broken  out  again.  Now  they  will  fight  all  the  winter 
through. " 

"The  Blood  Feud,"  repeated  Rosamund,  drawing 
back  from  the  embrasure  of  the  window  that  she  might 
no  longer  see  that  fearful  thing  down  below.  "Do  they 
kill  each  other?  What  does  it  mean?" 

"Have  you  not  already  heard  of  that  custom  of  this 
country  during  the  afternoons  you  have  spent  here?" 

"Father  Antonio  has  never  told  me  of  anything  so 
dreadful,"  answered  Rosamund. 

"They  do  not  call  it  dreadful,"  said  the  monk,  look- 
ing towards  the  village,  where  once  again  all  seemed 
peace,  and  the  only  thing  that  moved  was  that  long,  red, 
thin  line  creeping  over  the  snow.  "You  are  disturbed 
to-day.  Come  back  to  the  fire  and  we  will  tell  you  of 
the  custom." 

Paul,  with  a  twisted  piece  of  iron,  stirred -the  embers 
into  a  blaze.  He  flung  on  some  fresh  logs  which  crackled 
cheerily  and  sent  bright  shafts  of  light  into  the  furthest 
corners  of  the  dim  room. 


416        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Father  Ludovic  alone  of  the  party  did  not  sit.  He 
seemed  to  glory  in  his  great  height,  for  he  drew  himself 
up  to  his  tallest  as  he  leaned  against  a  bookcase  and 
looked  down  at  the  others. 

"The  history  of  Albania,"  began  the  Father,  "is  so 
wrapped  in  legend,  superstition,  and  mystery  that  no  man 
knows  when  the  Blood  Feud  first  commenced,  or  whose 
hand  it  was  that  inaugurated  the  series  of  violent  deaths 
which  have  carried  off  the  flower  of  the  country  from 
century  to  century.  We  Italians  and  Austrians — I  am  an 
Austrian" — he  interpolated — "have  been  told  that  since 
all  time  this  fierce  feud  has  existed.  The  tradition  is 
this:  If  you  kill  a  man,  you  owe  his  family  a  debt  of 
blood  which  only  your  own  death  can  wipe  out.  The 
man  who  claims  his  family's  debt  from  you  is  himself  a 
creditor  to  the  head  of  your  own  family,  and  so  it  goes 
on  descending  from  father  to  son,  from  brother  to 
brother.  Sometimes,  as  has  happened  to-day,  it  is  an 
old  man  who  falls,  but  as  often  as  not  it  is  a  child,  some- 
times even  an  infant.  I  think  I  know  the  man  down 
there.  If  so,  he  has  been  hiding  in  this  village  here,  and 
he  fled  to  it  from  Rosega,  far  down  the  valley.  He 
and  his  sons  had  a  feud  which  was  bequeathed  to  them 
for  five  generations,  and  in  Rosega  he  used  to  sit  with 
a  loaded  rifle  watching  by  day  and  by  night  till  he 
who  owed  him  blood  should  emerge  alone  from  his 
door." 

"I  saw  the  man  myself,"  cried  Rosamund.  "Our 
guide  told  me  that  he  waited  for  the  Agha.  I  did  not 
understand  then." 

"The  debt  must  have  been  paid,  or  the  old  man  would 
not  have  fled  up  here.  He  doubtless  thought  he 
would  be  safe  during  the  winter,  but  some  one  must 


THE   BLOOD   FEUD  417 

have  followed  him.  Perhaps  before  the  snows  fell  his 
enemy  came  here  and  has  waited  for  his  chance." 

"And  what  will  happen  now  that  he  is  dead?  Is  it 
all  finished?" 

The  monk  shook  his  head. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  that  he  had  three  sons  in  Rosega? 
When  the  snows  melt  and  the  paths  are  clear  again  and 
the  news  is  known  down  there,  the  Blood  Feud  will  begin 
again,  and  hide  how  he  will,  or  be  guarded  how  he  may, 
one  day  the  murderer  will  pay  his  debt." 

"But  is  no  man  ever  tried  for  murder  in  this  country?" 

The  monk  smiled. 

"In  the  towns  the  Turkish  zaptiehs  make  matters 
worse  by  trying  to  interfere,  but  the  people  of  these 
mountains,  this  great  Clementi  tribe,  and  those  who  like 
them  live  in  wild  fastnesses  and  gorges  where  the  foot  of 
no  Lowlander  can  find  a  hold,  know  no  laws  but  their 
own.  We,  who  have  been  called  to  a  higher  life,  try 
from  time  to  time  to  heal  those  breaches  and  to  urge 
that  'Bessa, '  the  peace  of  forgiveness,  should  be  estab- 
lished among  them." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  expressively,  till  the  sharp 
bones  stood  out  beneath  the  folds  of  his  habit.  "But 
what  will  you?  During  the  summer  months  when  we 
pass  among  them  they  keep  peace,  except  perhaps  dur- 
ing the  fast  of  'Ramazin.'  But  in  the  winter,  when  we 
in  these  mountain  monasteries  are  held  prisoners  by 
nature's  hands,  what  can  we  do?  Down  in  the  villages 
they  pass  the  winter  in  drinking  and  idleness.  No  man 
can  work,  be  he  ever  so  willing,  for  their  idleness  is 
forced  upon  them  by  God ;  so  they  get  quarrelsome,  and 
the  old  trouble  breaks  out  again.  I  have  passed  seven- 
teen years  here,  and  I  shall  stay  here  till  I  die.  Every 


418         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND   KEITH 

summer  we  get  these  wild  men  to  consent  to  the  'Bessa, ' 
and  every  winter  the  Martini-Peabodys  echo  round  the 
hills  and  the  red  blood  stains  the  white  snow,  and  there 
are  fewer  mouths  to  feed  in  the  cottages." 

"But  it  is  hateful;  it  is  frightful!"  cried  Rosamund. 
"They  do  not  look  such  cruel  people  as  all  that.  Those 
whom  I  saw  at  Rosega  seemed  kindly  and  hospitable ; 
not  as  if  they  had  blood  upon  their  hands." 

"The  .signorina  should  not  have  come  to  travel  in 
these  wild  parts,"  Father  Antonio  said,  suavely.  "There 
are  few  men  who  have  not  some  blood  debt  upon  their 
souls.  Why,  the  lay  brother  who  takes  you  your  food  is 
himself  a  refugee.  When  the  spring  comes  and  he  sets 
foot  upon  the  mountain  side  again,  he  will  fall  where  he 
stands." 

"The  man  who  brings  me  my  meals, "  said  Rosamund, 
"a  tall,  fair  man,  who  walks  like  one  accustomed  to 
much  exercise.  I  saw  many  of  the  same  type  at  Rosega. " 

"So  you  have  seen  him?"  said  the  monk. 

"Yes.  I  happened  to  open  my  door  one  day  before 
he  had  left  the  gallery.  Does  he  owe  a  blood  debt?" 

"Yes,  and  his  history  is  a  strange  one.  He  killed  a 
child." 

Paul  instinctively  moved  nearer  to  her  as  she  turned 
pale  and  wrung  her  hands. 

"Oh,  how  fearful!  How  dreadful!  A  poor  little  child. 
Oh,  that  could  not  be  fair,  if  there  is  any  fairness  in  such 
a  fearful  custom." 

"The  child's  father  had  killed  his  father,  and  has 
never  been  seen  since;  so  the  debt  came  to  the  child." 

"And  that  man  killed  it?" 

"Yes,  down  there  in  the  village  street,  three  days 
before  the  snow  fell." 

Rosamund  shuddered,   for  she  pictured  the  tall,  fair 


THE  BLOOD  FEUD  419 

man,  with  the  easy,  swinging  walk,  stained  with  innocent 
baby  blood. 

"He  was  a  coward,  too,"  interposed  Father  Ludovic, 
"for  when  he  had  shot  down  the  little  one,  he  ran  for 
asylum  to  the  mother's  house,  and  flung  himself  on  his 
knees  and  prayed  that  she  would  grant  him  the  'Bessa. ' 
By  their  strange  customs  the  woman  was  obliged  to  give 
him  the  oath  of  protection.  When  the  rest  of  the  family 
came  to  the  door  and  cried  to  him  to  come  out  and  pay 
the  debt,  she  herself  went  out  to  them  and  said  she  had 
granted  him  'Bessa'  until  noon.  Then  she  hid  him  up  in 
the  mountains  and  told  him  to  escape.  The  murderer, 
who  is  a  cur,  for  all  his  fine  shoulders  and  yellow  hair, 
fled  from  house  to  house,  hiding  now  here,  now  there,  in 
the  cellars,  the  balconies,  even  under  the  eaves.  They 
hunted  him  out  and  fired  at  him  a  score  of  times,  but 
the  darkness  veiled  him.  Their  rifles  are  bad,  their  pow- 
der is  large-grained  and  inferior,  and  they  cannot  aim 
without  a  rest,  so  he  escaped.  At  dawn  he  took  to  the 
mountains  and  arrived  here  for  sanctuary  at  the  mid- 
day. Our  Abbot,  who  is  most  charitable  and  good,  took 
him  in  and  clothed  him — and  out  of  gratitude  the  man — 
his  name  is  Hassan,  and  he  is  at  heart  a  Mussulman — was 
baptised  into  our  Church,  and  is  called  Brother  Gabriel. 
He  is  a  menial,  and  no  one  likes  him  here.  I  fear  that 
when  the  spring  comes  and  the  path  is  open  he  will  find 
himself  forced  to  go  down  to  the  village." 

"It  is  a  fearful  story,"  said  Rosamund,  rising  and 
drawing  her  cloak  round  her.  "Poor  man,  how  he  must 
have  suffered.  Surely  no  one  will  drive  him  from  the 
sanctuary  of  this  place?" 

Father  Antonio  shrugged  his  round  shoulders. 

"There  is  humanity  even  in  a  monastery,  signorina. " 

Then  Father  Ludovic  set  her  a  lesson  for  the  next  day, 


420        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

and  with  friendly  farewells  they  parted.  As  she  passed 
down  the  corridor  she  saw  that  the  snow  was  beginning 
to  fall  again,  not  in  a  light  and  whirling  shower,  but  in 
huge  soft  flakes  like  feathers,  which  lay  where  they  fell, 
and  piled  themselves  higher  and  higher  in  an  ever- 
thickening  sheet  of  whiteness. 


CHAPTER   XL 

A  WHITE  SHROUD 

THE  lamp  in  Paul's  cell  began  to  burn  sickly  yellow  in 
the  growing  dawn.  Prayers  in  the  winter  were  not  until 
half-past  five,  and  were  said  in  the  refectory  for  warmth's 
sake.  High  Mass  in  the  chapel  had  also  been  over  for 
some  time.  He  had  snatched  a  cup  of  coffee  and  hot 
milk  and  a  morsel  of  black  bread  and  cheese,  and  had 
then  come  up  to  his  cell.  With  almost  feminine  particu- 
larity he  made  all  tidy  before  sitting  down  to  study  his 
part  in  the  Mass  that  was  to  be  sung  on  the  following 
Sunday. 

Rosamund  had  been  many  weeks  in  the  monastery  of 
Chatista,  and  it  was  of  her  and  not  of  the  music  spread 
open  before  him  that  Paul  was  thinking  that  morning. 
His  violin  was  tuned,  his  bow  held  in  position,  but  no 
sound  rose  from  them.  With  dreamy  eyes  he  stared  at 
the  notes,  but  it  was  her  face  only  that  he  saw.  Her 
face,  with  the  tender,  bowed  mouth,  the  white-lidded 
eyes,  the  pensive  droop,  all  enframed  in  waved  masses 
of  dusky  hair. 

As  her  image  dominated  his  thoughts,  his  hands 
relaxed,  and  the  violin  slipped  to  his  knees. 

"How  like  a  saint  she  is  in  this  sad  place,"  he  mur- 
mured to  himself.  "Even  love's  passion  dies  at  one 
glance  from  her  pure  eyes.  And  yet—  and  yet — will  the 
time  never  pass?  The  days  shorten,  and  sometimes  it 
seems  as  though  an  everlasting  night  were  going  to  fall." 

421 


422        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

He  stretched  out  his  arms  longingly. 

"Ah!  for  the  spring  and  the  fair  countryside  at 
home — and  you — my  darling.  You,  who  have  been,  who 
are,  my  good  angel.  Angel,  indeed,  for  you  brought  me 
the  news  of  my  release,  and  you  are  giving  me  strength 
to  wait  with  patience." 

The  dying  lamp  flared  and  smoked,  and  he  put  it  out. 
A  feeble  sun-ray  pierced  through  the  small  double  win- 
dow, which  was  in  a  deep  recess  opposite  the  door.  It 
shone  upon  his  face  and  hands,  and  he,  in  the  pale  radi- 
ance, leaned  back  in  his  wide-armed  black  oak  chair  and 
rested  his  head  against  the  faded  rose-coloured  brocade 
with  which  it  was  upholstered. 

The  cell  was  of  fair  proportions,  and  like  all  the  rest 
of  the  monastery,  warmed  during  the  awful  winter 
months  by  heated  air.  A  small  wood  fire  also  burned 
on  the  red  brick  hearth,  for  in  that  climate,  cold  meant 
death.  An  old  piano  helped  to  fill  the  wall  opposite  the 
curtained  bed.  It  was  flanked  by  a  bookcase  and  a  nar- 
row writing  desk.  At  the  bed-head  was  a  prie  dieu. 
Paul  had  carved  it  himself  during  his  first  winter  there. 
Above  it  hung  a  rare  crucifix  of  ivory  and  silver — one  of 
the  many  splendid  gifts  that  from  time  to  time  wealthy 
patrons  or  grateful  travellers  had  lavished  on  the  com- 
munity. Rugs  and  mats  of  deer  and  wolf  skin  lay  upon 
the  floor.  Music  and  books  were  neatly  piled  on  the 
piano  top.  The  panelled  walls  were  almost  hidden  with 
sacred  pictures.  Many  were  crude  and  poorly  drawn, 
but  they  gave  an  air  of  comfort  and  colour  to  the  place. 
A  leather  curtain  hung  before  the  door,  near  which  was 
fixed  a  heart-shaped  white  benitier.  On  a  small  table  were 
toilet  necessaries  and  two  or  three  photographs.  One,  by 
the  costume,  was  quite  thirty  years  old.  It  represented 
Paul's  mother,  holding  him  as  an  infant  in  her  arms. 


A  WHITE  SHROUD  423 

Amid  such  surroundings  Paul  had  passed  more  than 
eighteen  months.  He  had  taken  two  years'  vows,  and 
dedicated  himself  to  the  higher  life  and  the  order  of  St. 
Francis.  But  in  the  spring  he  would  be  free,  and  when 
the  mountain  track  that  led  back  to  the  world — to  hap- 
piness— to  her,  was  open,  his  feet  would  travel  it. 

Paul,  the  Franciscan  brother,  vowed  to  austerity  and 
abnegation,  was  still  Paul,  the  man  of  easy  life  and  weak 
temperament,  and  his  heart  turned  readily  to  dreams  of 
a  brighter  future.  He  remembered — and  a  smile  broke 
the  weary  lines  of  his  mouth — that  during  their  frequent 
interviews  Rosamund  had  never  spoken  of  his  obliga- 
tions, had  never  asked  him  when  his  freedom  would  be 
complete. 

"Ah,  how  proud,  how  modest  she  is — how  full  of  faith 
and  trust!  All  her  strong  nature  turns  to  lean  on  me — 
and  I  am  so  unworthy!" 

No  music  sounded  that  morning  from  Brother  Paul's 
cell,  and  he  was  paler  than  usual  when  after  the  mid-day 
meal  he  entered  the  library,  and  by  his  coming  caused  a 
slight  stir  among  those  assembled  there. 

Nursing  the  fire  were  Father  Antonio  and  Father 
Nicholas,  a  countryman  of  the  first  named,  who  from 
ennui  had  lately  developed  a  taste  for  numismatics. 
Their  ruddy,  round  faces  glowed  like  full  moons  in  the 
hot  blaze,  as  they  argued  and  gesticulated  like  the  Ital- 
ians they  were. 

At  a  small  table  drawn  close  to  the  window  sat  Rosa- 
mund and  her  tutor.  Father  Ludovic  was  intent  on  his 
task,  but  Rosamund's  mouth  and  eyes  warned  Paul  that 
something  was  amiss. 

"How  does  your  pupil  progress,  Father?"  he  asked. 
Father  Ludovic  lifted  his  hollow  eyes  from  the  page 
before  him. 


424        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"The  signorina  is  apt  and  very  quick.  Her  progress 
is  extraordinary — but  to-day — 

"Father  Ludovic  has  just  told  me  that  one  of  your 
brotherhood  is  very  ill,"  interrupted  Rosamund.  "It 
seems  so  sad  that  any  one  should  be  ill  here — isolated 
from  home  and  friends."  She  thought  of  her  uncle  and 
sighed.  "I  hope  it  is  but  a  passing  indisposition, 
and  that  he  will  be  well  again  soon." 

"Illnesses  do  not  pass  here,  my  daughter,"  said 
Father  Ludovic.  "Once  the  sands  of  life  run  low  in 
this  climate  it  is  the  soul  that  passes." 

The  air  of  the  room  was  hot  and  heavy  with  the  pun- 
gent odour  of  leather-bound  books.  There  was  more 
snow,  too,  in  the  sullen,  grey  sky,  and  an  air  of  lassitude 
dominated  the  apartment.  Now  and  again  Rosamund 
shot  a  glance  at  Paul,  but  she  felt  little  desire  to  speak 
with  him.  Their  life  streams  were  running  so-tranquilly 
just  now  that  there  seemed  no  need  to  stir  their  depths. 
They  were  together  so  often  in  the  chapel  and  the  library 
that  they  had  small  need  of  words.  And  then  every  day, 
as  the  light  died  and  night  dropped  her  dark  mantle 
over  the  white  world,  he  played  to  her  and  poured  out 
all  the  love  and  passion  he  could  not  speak. 

In  her  present  mood — a  time  of  recovery  from  much 
mental  suffering  and  nervous  trial — that  intercourse  was 
sufficient  for  her.  Peace  and  the  assurance  of  his  love 
were  all  she  needed.  Yet  her  very  tranquillity  could 
bear  but  little  ruffling,  and  when  at  the  break  of  the  next 
dawn  she  was  awakened  from  her  slumber  by  the  dole- 
ful, monotonous  throbbing  of  a  single  bell,  she  sorrowed 
deeply.  The  snow  was  falling  through  the  thick  air  and 
the  sound  was  muffled,  but  each  note  struck  proclaimed 
the  news  that  a  member  of  the  brotherhood — made  one 
by  isolation — had  passed  away  in  the  night. 


A    WHITE  SHROUD  425 

That  afternoon  out  of  respect  she  did  not  go  to  the 
library,  but  only  left  her  room  for  half  an  hour  to  pace 
up  and  down  the  long  corridor  outside  it.  It  was  while 
she  was  there  that  she  heard  the  shuffling  of  feet  on  the 
stone  pavement  of  the  cloisters  below  and  the  droning  of 
a  funeral  hymn.  She  crept  to  one  of  the  windows  and 
looked  down  upon  the  sad  procession  of  monks  with 
their  brown  cowls  pulled  over  their  bent  heads  and  the 
beads  hanging  from  hands  that  were  crossed  upon  their 
breasts.  Four  of  them  carried  the  bier.  The  sight 
brought  a  pang  of  sorrow  to  her  heart,  for  it  reminded 
her  acutely  that  she  was  learning  to  forget  the  memory 
of  her  dear  uncle  whom  she  had  lost. 

As  the  melancholy  procession  passed  very  slowly  by 
and  was  swallowed  up  in  the  dimness  of  an  angle  of  the 
cloisters,  Rosamund's  eyes,  sharpened  by  love,  pierced 
through  the  awkwardly  cut,  rough  garments  and  discov- 
ered Paul  in  the  dismal  ranks. 

When  the  last  of  the  procession,  which  was  closed  by 
a  group  of  lay  brothers,  had  passed  away,  she  still  leaned 
against  the  window.  The  courtyard  of  the  monastery 
was  almost  new  ground  to  her,  and  she  looked  curiously 
at  the  long  rows  of  small  leaded  panes,  the  carved  mul- 
lions,  the  old  iron  water-spouts,  wrought  into  a  hundred 
different  heads  of  griffins  and  devils,  each  of  which  now 
wore  a  long  beard  of  ice.  On  the  wall  that  faced  south 
a  hardy  creeper  grew.  It  had  straggled  between  the 
close-set  windows  right  up  to  the  roof,  and  had  flung  one 
long  branch  round  a  low  chimney  stack.  It  was  covered 
with  snow,  which  had  frozen  hard  and  looked  like  a 
frosted  silver  pattern  against  the  grey  walls  of  the  old 
house.  Then  she  looked  downwards  to  where,  in  the 
centre  of  the  courtyard,  the  snow  lay  in  an  ever-growing 
heap,  for  the  cloisters  were  swept  clean  each  day,  and 


426        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

the  white  expanse  was  a  miniature  mountain  range  of 
ups  and  downs. 

A  dreary  sound  rent  the  silence.  It  was  the  mourn- 
ful funeral  chant  that  pierced  the  walls  and  floated  like 
a  dismal  wail  round  the  desolate  quadrangle.  It 
sounded  inexpressibly  sad  in  the  gloom  of  the  dying 
afternoon.  It  was  dusk  before  the  sound  of  footsteps 
passing  again  over  the  flagged  walk  told  her  that  the 
service  was  ended,  and  that  yet  another  monk  had  been 
laid  to  his  long  rest  in  the  vault  beneath  the  chancel. 

As  she  stood  there,  oblivious  of  darkness  and  cold, 
she  fell  to  wondering  whether  many  of  them  died  like 
that  during  these  terrible  winters.  She  knew  so  little  of 
those  who  dwelt  with  her  inside  these  thick  grey  walls, 
and  save  for  the  chance  words  let  drop  by  Paul  from  time 
to  time,  the  habit  of  their  lives  was  almost  a  sealed  book 
to  her.  She  recalled  how  changed  Paul  was,  and  how 
she  had  been  told  by  Mr.  Fraser  that  the  Italians  and 
other  Southern-bred  men  who  exiled  themselves,  either 
for  political,  family,  or  religious  reasons,  in  these  deso- 
late mountain  monasteries,  were  always  regarded  and 
spoken  of  by  their  friends  as  being  dead  men. 

"Dead!"  she  cried  to  the  darkness.  "Shall  we — 
Paul  and  I — ever  leave  this  place  alive?" 

With  a  new  doubt — a  growing  horror — added  to  the 
monotony  of  her  days,  she  went  slowly  back  to  her 
rooms.  That  evening  Paul  did  not  play  to  her,  and  she 
was  very  sad. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  RED  DEER 

THE  Advent  fasts  and  Christmas  feasts  were  past.  To 
Rosamund  they  had  only  served  as  a  mark  in  the  passage 
of  time.  She  fancied  that  a  depression  and  anxiety  filled 
the  air.  Father  Ludovic  grew  more  lean  and  silent, 
Paul  looked  ill  and  sad,  and  even  Father  Antonio's 
unquenchable  Southern  temperament  seemed  dim  and 
subdued. 

She  wondered  at  the  gradual  change,  and  one  day  she 
knew  the  truth. 

She  was  sitting  alone  in  the  library.  A  Turkish  book 
was  in  her  hands,  and  she  was  diligently  reading  it,  and 
as  she  went,  carefully  translating  each  sentence. 

"Rosamund!"  said  Paul's  voice  over  her  shoulder. 
She  did  not  start.  It  seemed  quite  natural  to  have  him 
there. 

"Give  me  your  attention  for  a  moment,  dearest."  A 
graver  cadence  than  usual  in  his  voice  made  her  turn 
sharply  in  her  chair,  letting  the  volume  fall  all  unheeded 
among  the  folds  of  her  white  gown. 

"Is  there  any  trouble,  Paul?  How  pale  and  anxious 
you  look." 

She  put  out  a  loving,  tender  hand  to  him. 

"You  seem  so  tired — so  worn.  Ah!  Paul,  now  that 
I  have  come  so  far  and  braved  such  dangers  to  be  near 
you — you  must  not  fail  me." 

He  caught  her  fingers  between  his  two  palms,  but 
only  the  ghost  of  a  smile  flickered  over  his  face. 

427 


428        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Dearest,  we  must  each  help  the  other  now.  To-day 
I  am  the  Abbot's  messenger  to  you." 

"The  Abbot  has  sent  me  a  message?  He  wants  me 
to  help  him?" 

"He  wants  you  to  be  brave.  That  is  the  help  we  all 
have  to  give  each  other  now." 

Paul  pulled  one  of  the  heavy  carved  chairs  to  her 
side  and  sat  down. 

"Listen,  dear,  to  what  he  says.  God,  for  His  own 
good  purposes,  has  made  you  one  of  our  community,  and 
the  Abbot  looks  upon  it  merely  as  an  act  of  justice  that 
you  should  know  how  matters  stand  with  us,  who  are  by 
the  will  of  that  same  God  prisoners  here  now.  The 
winter  through  which  we  are  passing  is  the  most  terrible 
that  has  ever  been  known,  even  in  these  wild  parts.  We 
have  much  sickness  in  the  house,  and  one  already  of  our 
community  has  been  called  from  earth  to  heaven.  Now 
we  find  ourselves  almost  at  the  end  of  our  stores  and 
food.  The  Abbot  wishes  you  to  know  this,  that  you 
may  not  think  that  you  are  treated  with  any  lack  of  hos- 
pitality if  from  to-day  your  fare  is  of  the  roughest.  All 
of  us  will  feed  alike  until  it  pleases  Providence  to  send 
us  flesh  or  fowl." 

Rosamund  smiled  in  Paul's  face. 

"Dearest,  as  you  fare  so  am  I  content  to  do." 

Paul  gazed  at  her,  so  brave  in  her  youth  and  strength, 
so  fair  and  simple  in  her  white. woollen  gown. 

"You  are  of  the  stuff  that  once  made  martyrs  and 
saints.  But  perhaps  there  will  be  compensation  in  the 
scales  of  justice.  When  the  weather  is  very  bitter  among 
the  passes  and  the  snow  lies  thick  for  many  weeks  on  the 
ground,  the  wild  red  deer,  which  herd  in  the  pine  forests 
and  in  the  more  sheltered  gorges,  grow  quite  tame,  and 
come  here — the  only  habitation  of  man  on  all  Argen- 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  RED  DEER      429 

talia's  rugged  sides — for  food.  Those  of  long  experi- 
ence here  say  that  the  deer  must  now  be  on  the  verge  of 
starvation,  and  yesterday  two  lay  brothers  scattered 
some  hay  a  few  yards  from  the  entrance.  This  morn- 
ing it  was  gone." 

"Oh!  Paul,"  cried  Rosamund,  "they  are  going  to 
trap  the  poor,  pretty  creatures." 

"My  dearest,  we  owe  it  to  our  Maker  to  preserve  the 
lives  He  gave  us.  Yes!  Each  night  now  the  great 
gates  will  be  set  open  and  the  courtyard  strewn  with 
sweet  hay." 

He  caught  sight  of  her  distressed  face. 

"Dear,  tender  heart,  we  but  fulfil  the  laws  of  nature. 
Ah!  I  have  hurt  you." 

To  distract  her  thoughts  he  picked  up  her  dropped 
book. 

"What  a  linguist  you  will  be,  Rosamund,  by  the  time 
you  leave  here.  Father  Ludovic  is  a  good  master." 

"He  is  most  patient  and  most  kind,"  answered  the 
girl,  anxious  to  interest  herself  in  other  subjects.  "But, 
Paul,  how  strangely  he  looks  sometimes — half  sad,  half 
fierce.  Has  he  a  history?" 

"Yes.  He  is  that  social  anomaly — an  anarchist.  He 
escaped  from  justice  to  these  fastnesses  seventeen  years 
ago.  For  months  half  a  regiment  of  the  Albanian  Guard 
scoured  the  mountains  for  him.  The  Abbot  gave  him 
sanctuary,  and  found  out  later  that  he,  in  his  youth,  had 
been  acquainted  with  Ludovic's  family.  It  was  that 
bond  that  made  him  keep  him  here.  Now  all  his  strong 
will  and  fierce  passions  have  turned  to  religion.  He 
flagellates  himself  at  night  in  his  cell  until  the  walls  are 
splashed  with  his  own  blood.  He  fasts  and  prays  till  he 
faints  on  the  altar  steps.  I  think  now  he  only  tastes  of 
peace  when  he  is  with  you." 


430        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

"Poor  man!  If  my  presence  brings  any  happiness  to 
him  I  am  glad." 

But  for  the  next  few  weeks  there  was  little  happiness 
and  much  anxiety  in  the  monastery.  So  unusually  early 
had  the  winter  begun  that  the  store  of  birds  and  mut- 
ton and  venison,  which  is  made  in  these  mountain  valleys 
with  the  idea  that  it  will  last  through  the  winter  months, 
had  almost  given  out.  Nothing  but  black  bread,  coarse 
and  gritty  as  ashes,  and  goats'  milk  cheese  was  served  at 
every  meal.  Often,  as  Rosamund  sat  at  her  books  or 
needlework,  her  head  swam  and  her  sight  grew  dim,  yet 
she  bore  the  trial  better  than  some,  who  became  more 
shadowy  and  wan  as  the  long  January  weeks  crept  by. 

The  red  deer  picked  shyly  at  the  scattered  hay  some- 
times, but,  as  the  monks  said,  were  not  yet  tame  enough 
to  venture  within  the  heavy  gates. 

But  at  last  a  morning  came  when  Rosamund  was 
startled  from  her  sleep  by  shouts  and  cries  and  shots. 
Dragging  on  her  gown  and  cloak,  she  ran  to  her  door. 
Scattered  outside  was  her  daily  supply  of  fire-logs. 
Hassan,  the  Albanian  lay  brother,  had  evidently  been 
disturbed  at  his  work  of  neatly  piling  them.  Half  fear- 
ful, half  curious,  the  girl  ran  to  the  corridor  window 
that  overlooked  the  quadrangle. 

The  sight  that  met  her  eyes  filled  her  with  mingled 
wonder  and  horror.  During  the  night  a  herd  of  red  deer, 
driven  at  last  from  the  mountains  by  storms,  cold,  and 
the  ravages  of  the  wolves,  had  rushed  into  the  trap  set 
for  them.  The  piled  snow  in  the  quadrangle  had  been 
trodden  in  every  direction  by  their  futile  efforts  to  escape. 
In  the  cloisters  were  all  the  monks  and  the  denizens  of 
the  monastery.  The  Abbot  himself  was  leaning  from  a 
window.  His  long  beard  was  blown  over  one  shoulder 
and  his  arms  were  waving  directions  to  those  below. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  RED  DEER     431 

"Not  too  fast!  Not  too  fast,  my  children!"  he  cried, 
as  a  shot  "pinged"  from  the  long  barrel  of  a  Martini- 
Peabody  and  another  lordly  creature  fell.  "Above  all, 
spare  the  does — spare  the  does." 

And  Ludovic,  from  the  angle  by  the  chapel  door, 
shouted:  "Kill  only  three!  They  will  suffice  for  the 
present." 

An  hour  later  Hassan  knocked  at  Rosamund's  door. 
He  was  smiling  broadly  all  over  his  fair,  handsome  face, 
and  bore  some  steaming  stew  upon  a  platter. 

"The  good  God  has  sent  us  some  food,"  he  cried  in 
his  strange  language.  "There  is  no  need  now  to  eat  dry 
bread  or  starve." 

With  all  her  natural  longing  for  the  food,  Rosamund 
endured  a  moment  of  revulsion.  She  had  seen  the 
pretty  animals  shot  out  there,  and  even  now  their  blood 
was  staining  the  snow.  Although  her  hands  went  out 
for  the  plate  she  shook  her  head  at  the  Albanian. 

"Do  you  know  the  legend,  signorina,  that  you  fear  to 
eat?  The  mountain  folk  vow  that  ill-luck  follows  the 
killing  of  a  wild  red  deer."  He  shrugged  his  broad 
shoulders  expressively  as  he  thrust  the  food  into  her 
reluctant  hands.  "But  you,  signorina,  are  English — 
and  a  Christian  lady.  You  would  not  believe  such  idle 
talk.  Neither  do  I.  It  is  only  for  dogs  of  Mussul- 
mans." 

And  the  recently  converted  son  of  Islam  hastened 
down  the  corridor  intent  on  his  own  dinner. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  DEAD 

FEBRUARY  had  set  in  and  the  Lenten  fasts  were  close  at 
hand.  Although  the  days  were  longer,  the  monastery, 
with  its  narrow,  lead-surrounded  windows  and  black 
oaken  walls,  was  very  dark  and  gloomy.  The  sun  had 
for  days  been  hidden  by  ragged  clouds,  which  poured  a 
never-ceasing  stream  of  mingled  snow  and  rain  upon  the 
countryside.  The  cold  became  more  difficult  to  bear, 
for  the  air  was  laden  with  damp  and  mist.  So  bad  was 
the  weather  that  the  red  does  that  had  lived  comfort- 
ably in  the  courtyard  during  the  extreme  frost  were  now 
stabled  with  the  horses  and  mules. 

Rosamund  often  visited  them  in  their  warm,  steamy 
shelter,  and  made  a  playmate  of  a  baby  fawn  that  was 
there.  She  had  to  struggle  hard  in  those  days  against 
a  nervous  depression,  which  when  she  was  alone  almost 
killed  the  strong  spirit  within  her.  The  many  months 
of  close  confinement  to  the  house,  the  monotony  of  the 
hours,  the  sameness  of  her  surroundings,  told  even  on 
her  equable  nature.  Then,  too,  as  the  days,  crept  by 
she  could  not  help  speculating  on  the  future. 

In  their  daily  intercourse — which,  even  when  they 
met  alone,  she  and  Paul  by  unspoken  consent  held  in 
the  leashes  of  self-restraint  and  emotional  suppression — 
the  coming  of  spring  and  its  consequences  were  now 
never  mentioned.  But  in  her  solitary  hours  Rosamund's 
imagination  won  compensating  sway,  and  she  built  a 

432 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  DEAD       433 

thousand  castles,  refuted  hundreds  of  arguments,  and 
dreamed  endless  dreams. 

Of  her  own  release — directly  it  should  be  safe  for  her 

to  leave  the  monastery — she  had  no  doubt.     The  Abbot 

.  himself  had   spoken  of  it,  and  promised  her  assistance. 

Of  money  she  would  have  plenty  for  her  journey,  for  the 

Fathers  held  for  her  the  pocket-book  found  on  her  uncle. 

But  Paul — what  of  him? 

Her  very  uncertainty  as  to  Paul's  future  stayed  her 
from  speaking  to  him  of  it.  That  his  two  years'  vow 
was  drawing  to  a  close  she  knew,  but  suppose  pressure — 
force  were  brought  to  bear  upon  him,  and  he  should  stay 
in  the  monastery?  She  longed  to  ask  him  if  the  brother- 
hood would  be  willing  to  let  him  go.  She  knew  herself 
to  be  a  coward,  she  despised  herself  for  postponing  the 
question.  But  she  loved  him  so  dearly,  she  dreaded  so 
much  the  thought  of  going  back  alone  to  a  world  that 
for  her  held  nothing  but  empty  memories,  that  she 
lacked  the  courage  to  meet  the  worst. 

Her  chiefest  happiness  she  now  found  in  the  chapel. 
Among  the  pictured  saints  and  silver  swinging  lamps, 
the  brilliant  gilding,  the  statues,  waxen  flowers,  and 
coloured  marbles,  surrounded  by  everything  she  had 
been  taught  to  abjure,  her  soul  found  peace  and  her 
heart  patience. 

She  had  prayed  a  long  time  one  day  before  the  altar 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  A  calm-eyed,  sweet-faced  picture 
hung  above  the  candles  and  the  dried  flowers.  After 
she  had  finished  praying  she  knelt  on,  gazing  at  the 
tender  features  till  they  seemed  to  pulsate  with  life. 

Suddenly  with  a  cry  she  held  out  her  hands  to  the 
picture.  "Ah !  Mother  of  God,  grant  me  courage  if  thou 
canst  not  give  me  happiness." 

Then  as  though  impelled  by  an  invisible  hand,  she 


434        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

leaned  forward  and  kissed  the  pierced  feet  of  the  ivcry 
Christ  that  stood  upon  the  altar.  As  she  did  so  a  dull 
roar  rolled  through  the  heavy  air  and  muttered  and 
echoed  in  the  chapel  roof. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  quickly. 

"That  sound  again!  What  can  it  be?  I  heard  it 
sleeping  and  waking  in  the  night." 

A  little  later  she  entered  the  library.  Of  the  three 
brown-habited  monks  present,  Ludovic  and  Paul  were 
seated  by  the  fire,  while  Father  Antonio  was  with  a  mag- 
nifying glass  examining  a  coin  by  the  window. 

The  room  was  so  warm,  and  the  occupants,  who 
might  have  looked  strange  in  fresh  eyes,  but  to  whom 
she  had  grown  accustomed,  looked  so  cheerful  and  con- 
tented that  much  of  her  own  depression  fled  at  the  sight 
of  them. 

Father  Antonio  called  her  as  she  entered. 

"See  here,  signorina!  Here's  quite  a  new  coin  for 
you  to-day.  I  found  a  leather  pouch  last  week  in  an  old 
chest  that  stands  in  the  refectory,  and  this  was  in  it. 
The  first  Russian  money  that  was  ever  struck." 

He  expatiated  on  it  for  some  moments  before  turning 
away  to  seek  a  place  for  it  in  the  already  over-full  glass 
cases. 

Rosamund  looked  from  the  window.  Huge  masses  of 
cloud  were  lying  all  along  the  mountain  tops,  and  the 
valley  beneath  the  leaden  canopy  looked  inexpressibly 
mournful.  She  shivered  at  the  prospect,  but  with  idle 
eyes  stared  on. 

Father  Antonio  was  now  by  the  fire,  round  which  the 
conversation  by  degrees  took  on  quite  a  genial  tone. 
The  monks  having  dined  well  and  being  warmed  by  the 
cheerful  flames,  told  stories  among  themselves  and 
laughed  and  gesticulated,  Even  Father  Ludovic  unbent 


THE    VALLET  OF  THE  DEAD  435 

a  little,  and  Rosamund  heard  his  harsh  voice  from  time 
to  time  raised  in  quite  animated  controversy  above 
Paul's  full,  clear  tones  and  the  chirrup  of  Father 
Antonio. 

"Is  not  the  signorina  cold  over  there?  The  wind 
comes  down  the  valley  at  this  season  and  strikes  upon 
the  windows  that  overlook  the  village,"  said  Father 
Ludovic  after  a  time. 

"I  am  not  cold,  thank  you,"  said  Rosamund.  "I 
have  my  cloak,"  and  she  pulled  the  warm,  white  gar- 
ment still  closer  about  her  shoulders. 

"Is  there  any  new  interest  in  the  landscape  to-day?" 
said  Paul.  "There  are  not  many  features  left  by  this 
awful  snow." 

Rosamund  leaned  one  shoulder  against  the  window- 
frame  and  turned  her  face  towards  the  group  by  the  fire. 

"I  have  not  seen  the  valley  for  the  clouds  for  some 
days,  and  now  this  afternoon  I  seem  to  miss  a  familiar 
object.  It  all  seems  different,  and  yet  it  is  still  white, 
just  as  it  has  been  ever  since  I  came  here.  Yet  to-day 
it  looks  dead,  as  though  something  that  had  lived  and 
illuminated  the  whole  scene  had  gone  out  of  it." 

Father  Ludovic  lifted  his  gaunt  height  from  the  elbow 
chair  and  came  over  to  her  side,  looking  with  curious 
eyes  right  up  the  gorge.  Paul  followed  him  to  the  win- 
dow. 

After  a  minute  or  two  Paul  touched  Ludovic  on  the 
arm. 

"The  water  has  ceased  to  fall  from  the  lake  up  there, 
has  it  not,  Father  Ludovic?" 

Ludovic  nodded  his  lean,  brown  head. 

"Yes.  It  is  as  the  signorina  says — the  light  and  the- 
life  have  gone  out  o£  the.  valley,  anxl  it.  looks  one  de.ad 
waste." 


436        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

Father  Antonio  thrust  himself  into  the  group.  "A 
valley  of  the  dead,"  he  murmured  to  himself.  "I  shall 
not  be  surprised  if  that  is  what  it  will  prove  to  be." 

A  warning  look  passed  between  the  two  Fathers,  and 
in  deep  and  whispered  conversation  they  presently  left 
the  room  together. 

Paul  still  stood  looking  from  the  window  up  towards 
the  frozen  lake.  Rosamund  with  a  sigh  was  turning 
towards  the  fire,  when  once  again  a  fearful  roar,'  fol- 
lowed by  a  splitting,  crashing  sound  tore  the  sullen 
silence. 

The  suddenness  of  the  sound,  acting  on  her  over- 
wrought nerves,  startled  her,  and  she  gave  a  slight 
scream. 

"Paul!"  she  cried,  her  carefully  guarded  self- 
restraint  breaking  down  before  the  instinct  that  drives  a 
woman  in  danger  to  the  man  she  loves. 

As  a  spark  fires  fuel,  her  plaintive  cry,  her  trembling 
outstretched  hands  made  him,  too,  forget. 

"My  darling — my  sweet — come  to  me." 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  as  the  magic  of  her 
eyes  drew  his  will —  his  soul  from  him,  he  kissed  her  on 
the  mouth. 

Ah!  the  heaven  of  that  kiss!  The  rare  fulfilment  of 
a  starved  desire. 

It  thrilled  her,  too.  with  rapture,  and  drove  the  blood 
madly  through  her  veins.  But  it  also  roused  memory 
and  honour.  She  drew  herself  from  his  embrace. 

"Paul!  Let  us  not  have  one  thought — one  word  to 
reproach  ourselves  with  in  the  future." 

"The  future!  Rosamund,  it  grows  nearer  every 
hour." 

She  crept  close  to  him  again,  but  only  laid  a  hand 
upon  his  arm.  He  smiled  as  he  saw  it  there,  resting 


THE    VALLET  OF   THE  DEAD  437 

upon  the  coarse  brown  habit,  as  a  white  rose-leaf  lies  on 
the  bare  ground. 

"Paul,  you  speak  hopefully  of  the  future.  Dear, 
that  gives  me  courage.  Is  there  to  be  a  future  for  us — 
together?" 

"Dearest — there  is!  There  must  be.  God's  hand 
has  ruled  our  destinies  from  the  first.  Ah!  if  you  could 
only  know  how  I  tried  to  kill  myself  and  my  love  and 
my  memory  for  you.  A  thousand  times  when  I  first 
came  here  I  prayed  to  heaven  that  I  might  die.  Last 
winter  I  lay  at  death's  door  for  weeks,  and  they  told  me 
when  I  was  well  again  that  my  restoration  to  health  was 
a  sign  from  the  Almighty  that  I  was  destined  for  other 
things  than  to  be  thrust  into  a  coffin  and  buried  away 
out  of  sight.  I  thought  in  my  foolishness  that  some  day 
I  might  be  a  great  preacher  or  reformer  among  men; 
that  I  might  go  out  among  these  poor  heathens  here  and 
reclaim  some  of  them  and  bring  them  to  the  true  God. 
But  now  I  know  that  I  was  not  saved  for  that.  I  know 
that  I  was  saved  for  you,  and  you  only.  It  must  be 
that,  or  why  did  Providence  bring  you  to  these  doors 
when  there  was  the  whole  of  Europe  for  you  to  wander 
over,  and  thousands  of  monasteries  could  shelter  you?" 

He  took  her  hand  and  led  her  over  to  the  fire. 
"Don't  shake  your  head,  my  dear  love,  and  don't  look 
so  sad.  Don't  you  see  that  we  are  in  God's  hands — 
that  we  cannot  help  ourselves,  you  and  I?  We  were 
meant  for  one  another  from  the  first.  I  myself,  by  the 
folly  of  my  youth,  by  the  ill-considered  actions  of  my 
manhood,  raised  between  us  the  greatest  barriers  that 
man  knows  of.  But  love  has  triumphed  and  destiny  has 
won,  Rosamund,  and  we  are  going  away  from  here — not, 
perhaps,  back  to  the  world,  but  to  some  sweet,  quiet 
spot  where  we  can  thank  Providence  for  its  goodness, 


438        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

and  be  happy  till  the  real  time  of  our  inevitable  separa- 
tion comes." 

Rosamund  raised  her  eyes  questioningly  to  his. 

"Back  to  the  world,  Paul?  Ah!  would  that  we  were 
there  now.  But  we  are  prisoners  here." 

"Yes,  dearest,  prisoners  for  the  moment,  but  not  for- 
ever. The  spring  is  coming,  and  with  the  spring,  deliv- 
erance. When  the  snows  melt  and  the  paths  are  free 
again  they  will  send  you  with  an  escort  down  the  moun- 
tain, and  you  can  wait  for  me  in  some  safe  refuge  till  I 
come  to  you." 

A  few  weak  tears  welled  in  her  eyes. 

"When  will  that  be,  dear?  Paul,  it  is  such  a  terror 
to  me  to  think  that  we  must  be  parted,  even  for  a  little 
while.  Cannot  we  leave  together?" 

"Perhaps.  The  two  years  for  which  I  took  my  vows 
are  nearly  over.  It  may  be  that  the  same  day  will  set 
us  both  free;  and  even  if  we  cannot  go  together,  be 
sure  that  my  feet  will  tread  the  paths  that  yours  will 
have  touched,  and  once  I  am  with  you,  darling,  we 
shall  never  be  parted  again." 

He  wiped  the  tears  gently  from  her  pale  cheeks  and 
drew  her  head  down  to  his  shoulder. 

"Why,  you  used  to  be  so  brave,  Rosamund.  I  always 
looked  to  you  and  leaned  upon  you,  and  now  it  is  I  who 
am  the  stronger." 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said  at  length.  "I  am  so  afraid 
up  here.  They  have  all  been  good  and  kind  to  me,  and 
I  am  sure  that  they  will  let  me  go  in  the  springtime,  but 
there  are  many  weeks  till  that  time  comes." 

A  loud  roll,  sullen  and  muffled,  shook  the  earth.  She 
trembled  and  clung  to  him. 

"Rosamund,  Rosamund,  you  must  not  give  way  to 
such  idle  fears.  Look  what  we  have  lived  through,  you 


THE    VALLET  OF   THE  DEAD  439 

and  I.  As  to  that  noise,  it  is  but  the  first  snows  slipping 
from  the  steeper  peaks  to  the  valley.  If  the  clouds  did 
not  lie  so  low,  you  could  watch  the  avalanches.  When 
the  sun  shines  on  them  they  are  like  falls  of  molten 
silver.  Why,  dearest,  they  are  the  harbingers  of  spring. 
Now  you  know  that,  I  expect  you  to  count  each  one  as  a 
friend." 

"But  that  strange,  crackling  noise — there  it  is  again—- 
that can't  be  snow." 

"Avalanches  often  carry  rocks  in  their  fall.  I  must 
go.  It  is  just  the  hour  for  vespers," 

She  caught  a  fold  of  his  habit  in  her  hand. 

"Paul,  at  what  time  do  you  all  pray  in  the  evening?" 

"At  nine  o'clock,  dear,  in  the  refectory.  We  spend 
our  hour  of  recreation  there  also,  after  we've  finished 
supper." 

"At  nine.  Paul,  remember  to-night  that  at  the  same 
hour  I  shall  be  praying,  too." 

She  glided  softly  out  of  the  room.  When  he  was 
alone,  he  ran  quickly  to  the  window  and  strained  his 
eyes  in  vain  to  pierce  the  heavy  clouds  that  lay  like  a 
pall  over  the  upper  end  of  the  valley. 

"Almost  I  could  fancy  that  those  noises  were  thun- 
der, save  that  the  Fathers  looked  so  grave." 

The  summons  to  vespers  sounded.  With  a  pale, 
thoughtful  face  he  took  his  way  to  the  chapel. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

THE  HEADMAN'S  HOUSE 

IN  the  Headman's  house  down  in  the  village  of  Chatista 
the  wood  fire  burnt  low,  and  the  lazy  smoke  scarcely 
reached  the  ceiling,  but  hung  in  blue  wreaths  among  the 
low  rafters.  It  was  at  the  end  of  the  day,  and  the 
women  of  the  house  were  busy  in  a  dark  corner  prepar- 
ing the  evening  meal.  Nearer  to  the  brazier  of  charcoal 
sat  the  Headman  himself,  a  powerful  giant,  with  a  blue- 
tasselled  fez  upon  his  head  and  a  red  shawl  bound 
tightly  round  his  throat.  He  was  addressing,  in  low, 
measured  terms,  a  group  of  about  twenty  neighbours,  half 
of  whom  squatted  cross-legged  on  the  mud  floor,  while 
the  others  either  leaned  against  the  wooden  walls  or  paced 
to  and  fro  just  within  the  open  door.  That  some 
trouble  was  afoot  it  was  easy  to  see,  for  the  faces  of  the 
men,  dark  and  heavily  moustached  as  they  were,  all 
betrayed  anxiety  or  anger. 

"Catanio's  son  is  dead,"  said  the  Headman,  shaking 
his  head  at  his  friends.  That  is  the  third  child  he  has 
lost  this  winter,  and  it  is  the  twentieth  youth  whom 
death  has  claimed  since  the  snows  fell." 

Several  of  the  men  on  the  floor  raised  their  hands 
with  a  gesture  of  sorrow. 

"The  times  are  surely  bad,"  went  on  the  Headman, 
"when  the  village  sees  the  flower  and  pride  of  its  man- 
hood dying  like  sheep." 

One  who  was  dressed  as  a  Mahomedan  spoke  next, 
taking  his  long  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

44° 


THE  HEADMAN'S  HOUSE  441 

"And  what  of  the  women?"  he  said.  "My  wife  Aisha 
is  no  more,  and  the  wife  of  my  neighbour  Ali  is  dead. 
Tell  us  where  we  are  to  get  new  women  to  tend  our  huts 
and  draw  the  water." 

The  Albanian  flashed  a  scornful  look  at  the  Turk. 
He  had  been  born  of  a  Christian  mother  and  a  Mahome- 
dan  father,  and  his  upbringing  had  been  a  mingling  of 
both  religions,  and  had  made  him  neither  a  follower 
of  God  nor  of  His  Prophet.  Though  he  had  married  a 
Turkish  girl,  it  had  been  in  the  Albanian  fashion,  taking 
her  from  the  priest's  house.  He  had  the  scorn  of  a 
healthy  living  man  for  the  more  sensual  and  idle  Turks, 
who,  however  poor  they  were,  kept  their  wives  in  strict 
seclusion,  and  though  they  treated  them  little  better 
than  animals,  looked  upon  them  as  absolute  necessities 
to  their  existence. 

"I  think  there  is  a  curse  upon  this  place,"  cried  a 
swarthy  mountaineer  from  the  background.  "Never 
since  the  time  of  my  grandfather  —  peace  be  to  his 
soul! — have  we  had  such  snows." 

"And  never  has  death  been  so  rife  among  us,"  said 
another. 

"And  never  have  we  starved  so  long,"  put  in  a  short 
man  with  a  wide,  animal  mouth. 

One  who  was  leaning  against  the  door,  nis  brown 
head  crowned  with  a  white  felt  skull  cap  and  his 
straight  lower  limbs  outlined  by  the  tight-fitting  panta- 
loons of  the  true  Albanian  mountaineer,  stepped  forward 
into  the  circle. 

"You  think  there  is  a  curse  upon  this  place,"  he  said. 
"I  know  there  is." 

"What  do  you  know,  Agar?"  asked  Nikleka,  the 
Headman,  fiercely. 

"Perhaps  one  of  the  younger  monks  who  lives  in  that 


442         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

eagle's  nest  above  us  proves  he  is  still  a  man  and  has 
cast  eyes  on  that  new  slave  of  yours  that  you  brought  up 
from  Rosega  last  autumn.  A  woman  of  the  village  said 
she  was  beautiful." 

"Silence  there!"  thundered  the  other.  "The  girl  is 
dead.  Dead  of  the  same  strange,  mysterious  disease 
that  has  killed  so  many  during  the  last  few  weeks,  and  as 
to  that,  Selim,  I  would  like  to  see  one  of  them  dare  set 
so  much  as  an  eye  upon  one  of  my  women."  He  tossed 
his  head  back  and  laughed.  "They  do  not  want  our 
women." 

A  thrill  ran  through  the  group  gathered  in  the 
shadows  cast  by  the  fire.  All  these  men — Albanians  and 
Turks,  Mussulmans  and  Christians — whatever  they  said 
among  themselves  from  time  to  time  about  the  saintly 
priesthood  that  lived  year  in  and  year  out  on  the  crags 
above  them,  in  their  hearts  had  always  felt  that  grudging 
admiration  which  brave  men  grant  to  brave  men.  Liv- 
ing as  they  did  themselves  in  the  comparative  shelter  of 
the  valley,  even  their  hardy  natures  could  never  with- 
hold a  tribute  of  "wonder  to  these,  most  of  whom  they 
knew  came  from  softer  climes  than  their  own,  who  vol- 
untarily exiled  themselves  to  the  bleakest  and  most 
exposed  spot  on  the  mountains  for  many  miles  round. 
Their  hard-working  efforts  in  the  summer  months,  their 
privations  during  the  long  winter,  the  stoicism  with 
which  they  bore  isolation  and  desolation  had  always 
wrung  from  these  rough  mountaineers  a  certain  measure 
of  respect.  Above  all,  those  who  were  Mahomedans, 
and  absolutely  free  in  their  domestic  relations,  had 
always  been  struck  with  the  fact  that  these  strange 
Christian  men  h#d  voluntarily  deprived  themselves  of 
one  of  the  joys  of  life — the  companionship  of  women. 
They  laughed  in  their  beards  sometimes  and  called  them 


THE  HEADMAN'S  HOUSE  443 

fools;  they  made  coarse  jokes  among  themselves,  and 
yet  every  man  believed  secretly  that  by  what  they 
deemed  this  chiefest  sacrifice  these  Christian  men  were 
laying  up  for  themselves  a  certain  future  of  beatitude. 
Those  among  them  who  had  from  time  to  time  left  the 
mountains  and  been  down  to  the  great  cities  had  told 
them  of  pious  Mussulmans  who  had  deprived  themselves 
also  of  all  the  joys  of  life,  and  they  could  appreciate  and 
admire,  though  they  never  wished  to  follow,  the 
example  of  such  an  existence. 

"Ah!  but  they  kill — and  eat — the  red  deer,"  cried 
Selim.  "They  have  hung  the  bare  bones  and  antlers  of 
a  red  deer's  head  above  their  doorway.  That  in  itself 
is  a  defiance  to  us." 

"Never  mind  the  red  deer.  That  is  an  old  wife's 
tale,"  sneered  Nikleka.  "God  is  angry  with  us  or  with 
them. '  You  all  know  there  is  a  God,  whether  it  is  He  to 
whom  they  pray  or  our  own,  and  this  region  has  been 
blasted  by  His  fury." 

"Ala  who  akbar;  la  Ala  il  ala!"  muttered  a  grey- 
bearded  Turk,  crouching  near  the  brazier.  "Sickness 
and  starvation  and  cold  have  come  upon  us,  and  we  are 
helpless." 

"Nikleka  is  right!"  cried  two  or  three  voices,  as  the 
Albanian  finished,  while  an  old  woman,  in  a  far  corner 
began  to  croon  a  dirge  about  punishment  and  sin,  and 
in  strange  rhythmical  lines  urged  on  the  men  to  remove 
the  stain  from  the  village. 

"Silence  there!"  shouted  Nikleka,  noticing  how  in  a 
few  minutes  the  droning  words  had  fired  the  men  and 
how  they  were  muttering  threats  and  curses  among 
themselves. 

"What  matters  it  if  I  am  silent?"  called  back  the 
hag.  "A  sin  once  committed  cries  aloud  for  punish- 


444        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

ment.  Wine  that  is  spilt  must  be  wiped  up,  or  it  leaves 
a  stain  forever.  A  sin  has  been  committed.  Let  those 
who  have  done  it  meet  with  the  just  reward." 

The  shadowy  figure  sank  again  to  the  floor  and  the 
long,  withered  hands  of  the  old  woman  began  again  to 
knead  the  coarse  maize  bread. 

Nikleka  looked  round  him.  He  was  a  fair-minded 
man,  though  stern  and  strict  in  the  administration  of 
justice  in  the  village.  He  was  born  of  a  savage  people, 
and  had  been  brought  up  amid  savage  surroundings. 
The  laws  he  administered  were  almost  all  those  of  his 
own  making,  and  were  governed  by  the  crudest  sense  of 
right  and  wrong.  Still,  in  his  rough  way,  he  had  always 
entertained  a  sympathy  for  those  men  who  lived  out  their 
voluntary  exile  so  far  above  his  head,  and  if  he  felt  any- 
thing at  the  vague  hint  that  they  had  fallen  from  the 
pedestal  on  which  he  had  placed  them,  it  was  a  sense  of 
disappointment  more  than  of  anger.  But  the  men  about 
him,  his  neighbours  in  the  village — and  some  were 
almost  as  powerful  and  as  rich  in  flocks  and  herds  as 
himself — would  not  be  easy  to  manage,  he  felt,  if  in  the 
spring  a  collision  occurred  between  his  own  people 
and  the  monks.  Leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  he 
stared  into  the  embers,  while  the  men  about  him  whis- 
pered together,  and  Agar,  standing  again  by  the  door, 
was  addressing  in  angry  tones  the  two  or  three  who  had 
followed  him. 

Suddenly  a  great  roar  resounded  through  the  air.  It 
was  followed  by  a  heavy  crash  that  shook  the  whole  vil- 
lage. It  reverberated  back  in  thunderous  waves  from 
mountain  top  to  mountain  top,  and  bellowed  hoarsely  in 
the  slumbrous,  snow-bound  valleys.  Every  man  started 
to  his  feet  and  made  for  the  narrow  doorway,  rushing 


THE  HEADMAN'S  HOUSE  445 

pell-mell  into  the  street  and  standing  with  wide  eyes  and 
open  mouth  staring  about  him.  But  as  the  sound  died 
away  a  dead  silence  followed,  and  all  was  still  and  at 
peace  again,  save  that  here  and  there  some  of  the  sleepy 
peasants  peered  from  their  doorways,  and  then  crept 
back  to  their  blankets  by  their  firesides. 

"The  Black  Glacier  is  moving  fast  to-night,"  said 
Nikleka.  He  cast  his  eyes  up  the  valley,  but  in  the 
darkness  nothing  was  to  be  seen.  "I  have  never  heard 
so  great  a  fall." 

A  trembling  Mahomedan  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
group  looked  up  at  the  monastery. 

"I  thought  it  was  an  explosion,  and  that  Allah  had 
wiped  out  the  Christian  dogs  and  the  building  that  they 
have  made." 

Selim  spoke  next. 

"Say  rather  that  Allah  is  wiping  us  out.  Listen! 
They  are  wailing  down  at  Selza's  hut.  That  means  his 
child  is  dead.  The  little  one  was  only  taken  ill  three 
hours  ago.  I  feared  it  would  not  live." 

He  spoke  truly,  for  the  howl  of  the  mourning  women 
pierced  the  quiet  night  air  and  made  each  man  draw 
shudderingly  nearer  to  his  neighbour.  Truly  it  was  a 
fearful  and  a  deadly  sickness  that  walked  their  village 
street  and  entered  at  their  doors,  and  no  one  knew  who 
might  be  stricken  next.  Then  each  man  grasped  another 
by  the  arm,  for  a  second  and  then  a  third  crash  sounded 
from  the  head  of  the  gorge. 

"How  the  ice  comes  down,"  said  one  to  his  neigh- 
bour. "Surely  the  glacier  is  not  going  to  topple  over 
altogether,"  he  cried.  He  had  jested  before,  and  he 
now  made  a  feeble  attempt  to  be  merry  again.  "It  will 
be  a  fine  sight  if  it  does." 


446         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND   KEITH 

"Stop  thy  foolish  tongue,"  said  Nikleka,  sharply. 
Then  he  raised  his  hand  again  above  his  eyes  and  tried 
to  pierce  the  dense  darkness. 

"Would  it  were  not  so  dark  a  night,  that  we  might 
see  what  is  going  on  up  there.  The  Black  Glacier  has 
been  moving  fast  for  the  last  few  weeks,  and  much  ice 
has  fallen  since  the  new  year.  I  cannot  make  it  out." 

Agar  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Another  trouble." 

Nikleka  turned  his  fierce  eyes  on  the  pessimist. 

"There  may  be  more  trouble  than  you  think,  friend 
Agar.  I  mind  me  of  a  story  that  I  heard  when  I  was  yet 
a  little  child.  It  is  an  old  tale — almost  a  legend — that 
has  lived  through  the  centuries.  My  father  told  it  to 
me.  It  bodes  no  good  when  the  Black  Glacier  stirs  in 
its  bed." 

"Is  it  truly  a  portent?"  cried  one. 

"Was  the  story  an  evil  one?"  said  another. 

Nikleka  shook  his  head. 

"I  cannot  tell  till  dawn,  and  even  then  the  snows  lie 
so  thick  that  I  doubt  if  we  can  get  beyond  the  village, 
but  you  must  sleep  now,  good  friends,  for  there  may  be 
work  before  us." 

But  the  group,  still  reluctant  to  part  and  bound  to- 
gether by  an  unknown  fear,  clustered  closely  in  the  nar- 
row street.  The  wail  of  the  women  in  the  house  where 
the  child  had  just  died  had  sunk  for  a  moment  into 
nothingness.  The  silence  could  almost  be  felt.  Sud- 
denly every  man's  head  turned,  and  over  every  man's 
face,  in  the  dim  light  that  shone  from  the  open  door  of 
Nikleka's  hut,  a  strange  look,  half  of  expectation,  half 
of  astonishment,  crept.  A  tiny,  faint,  trickling  sound 
cut  through  the  darkness.  It  was  very  soft  and  very 
sharp  at  the  same  time.  It  was  the  sound  of  trickling 


THE  HEADMAN'S  HOUSE  447 

water,  falling  and  dropping  from  a  rock.  Nikleka  raised 
his  hand. 

"Friends,  the  snows  are  melting;  the  spring  is  at 
hand.  We  must  try  in  a  few  days  to  get  up  the  gorge 
and  see  what  the  great  glacier  is  doing.  Now,  good 
night." 

As  each  went  down  the  white  silent  street  to  his  own 
hut  once  more  the  great  ice  river  stirred  in  its  bed,  and 
once  more  the  roar  and  crash  of  the  falling  of  tons  of 
splintered  ice  pierced  the  night.  As  Agar  reached  his 
own  hovel  he  turned  and  stared  in  the  direction  of  the 
distant  beetling  crag  with  its  crown  of  buildings.  He 
shook  his  fist  fiercely  towards  the  silent  mass  before 
entering  his  own  dark  hut  and  shutting  the  tiny  door 
behind  him. 


CHAPTER   XLIV 

THE  BLACK  GLACIER 

THE  days  were  slowly  lengthening  and  the  weeks  well  set 
in  the  second  quarter  of  the  year  when  one  day  the  Abbot 
sent  for  Rosamund  to  come  to  his  room  and  told  her  that 
she  might  now  walk,  if  she  so  pleased,  upon  the  narrow 
terrace  that  overhung  the  cliff.  She  heard  his  words  with 
astonishment,  and  could  not  keep  her  eyes  from  travel- 
ling to  the  window,  from  which  nothing  was  to  be  seen 
but  a  great  waste  of  pure  white  snow.  The  good  Father 
smiled  at  the  look  of  incredulity  that  came  into  her  face. 

"You  think  there  is  no  change  out  there,"  he  said. 
"It  is  not  so.  It  is  within  these  thick  walls  that  there  is 
no  change.  Once  the  biting  colds  and  damps  of  the 
winter  make  their  way  in  here  it  takes  many  weeks  of 
sunshine  and  pure  air  to  drive  them  out.  But  I  beg  you 
to  put  on  your  cloak  to-day  and  walk  on  the  terrace. 
Directly  you  set  foot  there  you  will  understand  why  I 
advised  you  to  go." 

And  when  a  few  minutes  later  Rosamund,  with  her 
big  white  capa  drawn  about  her  and  the  cowl  pulled  over 
her  dark  locks,  stepped  on  to  the  clean  swept  flags  of 
the  narrow  promenade,  she  knew  that  the  Abbot  had 
been  right.  True  that  the  snows  were  still  thick  on  all 
sides,  and  that  the  skies  here  and  there  were  veiled  with 
a  grey  gauze  that  circled  round  the  mountains  and 
stretched  like  scarfs  between  the  hills.  But  the  keen 
cruelty  had  died  from  the  air,  and  when  she  placed  her 
hand  upon  the  glistening  snow  that  lay  upon  the  parapet 

448 


THE  BLACK  GLACIER  449 

she  drew  it  back  all  wet,  for  the  sun  was  shining  and  a 
west  wind  was  blowing  and  the  snows  were  beginning  to 
melt. 

A  strange  exultation  filled  her  heart  at  the  idea,  and 
yet  for  all  her  growing  happiness  she  felt  guilty  of 
ingratitude  to  those  who  had  saved  her  from  a  lingering 
death,  and  out  of  their  own  meagre  store  had  fed  and 
clothed  her  all  the  winter  through.  She  pressed  her 
hands  over  her  eyes  and  stood  with  her  face  covered  for 
a  moment.  As  she  dropped  them  again  she  saw  Paul 
standing  before  her. 

"You  here!  You  and  the  spring  together.  Oh!  Paul, 
is  this  really  the  beginning  of  the  end?  Are  we  soon 
going  to  be  free?" 

"The  beginning  of  the  end!"  he  cried.  "No,  it  is  the 
beginning  of  the  beginning.  The  Abbot  has  already  been 
considering  how  soon  it  will  be  safe  to  send  you  down 
to  Rosega  and  who  are  to  be  your  escort." 

"How  kind  he  is,"  said  Rosamund,  her  eyes  filling 
with  tears  at  the  delicious  prospect  that  opened  up 
before  her. 

"Yes,  he  is  a  good  man,"  Paul  sighed.  "It  is  the 
thought  that  in  leaving  this  place  I  shall  grieve  him  that 
is  my  one  sorrow.  But  he  is  human;  he  is  a  man;  and 
I  think  when  I  go  to  him  and  tell  him  that  I  cannot 
renew  my  vows — when  he  hears  the  story  of  our  ill- 
starred  love — I  think  that  he  will  be  the  first  to  bid  me 
go  and  to  wish  me,  'God-speed.'  ' 

"Paul,  when  will  that  be?  How  soon  shall  I  be  able 
to  go,  and  how  soon  will  you  be  able  to  follow  me?" 

"The  spring  comes  in  quickly  in  these  parts,  but  the 
path  down  the  mountains  will  not  be  safe  for  some  time 
yet.  Not  till  next  month." 

"Another   month — only    another    month!     Paul,    it 


45°        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

seems  too  good  to  be  true  after  this  long  imprisonment. 
And  you — you  will  come  at  once?" 

"As  quickly  as  I  can,  dear  love.  You  will  not  be 
more  impatient  for  my  coming  than  I  shall  be  to  join 
you.  You  must  wait  for  me  at  Rosega,  and  together 
we  will  go  to  San  Giovanni  di  Medua  on  the  coast. 
From  there  we  can  take  ship  to  Trieste,  and  once  in 
Italy  we  shall  be  married  before  the  Consul." 

Rosamund,  with  her  heart  on  her  lips  and  all  her 
love  shining  in  her  eyes,  slipped  her  hand  for  one  brief 
moment  into  Paul's. 

"Dearest,"  she  murmured,  "our  happiness  will  be  all 
the  greater  then,  for  being  so  long  deferred. " 

"It  is  a  fair  and  promising  day,  is  it  not,  signorina?" 
murmured  a  voice  behind  them. 

Father  Ludovic  stood  within  a  pace  of  Rosamund's 
shoulder.  She,  startled  for  a  moment  out  of  her  self- 
possession,  uttered  a  slight  scream  as  she  sprang  back 
against  the  low  parapet.  Like  lightning  the  monk's  lean 
hand  caught  her  arm. 

"Be  careful,"  he  cried,  warningly.  "The  wall  is  very 
low;  you  nearly  fell  over.  And  it  would  be  a  pity  if 
you  fell  down  there  just  now,"  continued  Father  Ludo- 
vic, advancing  between  the  two,  and  himself  leaning  over 
the  parapet.  "There  has  been  some  trouble  in  the  vil- 
lage the  last  few  days,  and  I  do  not  think  they  would 
take  kindly  to  strangers  just  now." 

Almost  mechanically  Rosamund's  eyes  followed  his 
thin,  pointing  finger.  Down  below,  the  narrow  village 
street  seemed  full  of  people.  There  was  much  hurrying 
to  and  fro,  but  by-and-bye  the  men  detached  them- 
selves from  the  women  and  children  and  set  forth,  about 
a  hundred  of  them,  up  the  winding  road  that  led  from 
the  village  to  the  head  of  the  gorge. 


THE  BLACK  GLACIER  45 l 

"The  thaw  is  more  advanced  down  there,"  said 
Father  Ludovic.  "The  road  is  almost  clear.  See,  they 
walk  with  comparative  ease." 

The  watchers  on  the  terrace  saw  that  his  words  were 
true,  for  although  the  snow  still  lay  all  round  the  vil- 
lage, it  was  undoubtedly  soft  and  turning  to  water,  for 
every  footprint  left  a  great  brown  mark  on  the  hitherto 
virgin  ground. 

"They  carry  picks  and  implements  of  labour,  good 
Father,"  remarked  Paul.  "Yet  it  is  not  seed  time.  The 
fields  are  still  wrapped  in  snow." 

The  priest  nodded  his  head  gravely. 

"They  dread  a  harvest  of  another  kind,  I  fear. 
Watch  and  you  will  see." 

A  black  and  straggling  procession  amid  the  white- 
ness, the  villagers  toiled  ankle-deep  in  slush  and  water 
up  the  narrow  path.  After  a  time  they  stopped,  and 
those  from  above  could  see  that  they  gathered  together 
in  a  knot,  talking  and  gesticulating  and  pointing  at  some- 
thing that  seemed  to  bar  their  progress. 

"What  are  they  doing?"  asked  Rosamund,  with  curi- 
osity. 

"The  signorina's  eyes  are  not  used  to  gazing  at  the 
snows,  or  she  would  see  amid  the  universal  whiteness 
that  those  men  are  stopped,  not  by  snow,  but  by  ice." 

"Is  that  where  the  Black  Glacier  has  been  flinging 
down  so  much  ice  the  last  few  weeks?"  said  Rosamund, 
remembering  the  crashing  sounds  that  had  sounded  day 
and  night  through  the  valley  for  so  long. 

"Yes,"  replied  Father  Ludovic.  "God  has  built  a 
wall  there  that  man  is  not  going  to  break  down  in 
a  hurry." 

Presently  they  saw  two  figures,  with  picks  and  axes 
and  long  iron-shod  poles,  slowly  begin  to  climb  the  vast 


452        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

dam  formed  from  the  thousands  of  tons  of  ice  that  had 
accumulated  right  across  the  bed  of  the  stream.  For 
over  an  hour  they  scrambled  and  slipped,  pulling  them- 
selves up  by  the  aid  of  their  picks,  and  always  exhorted 
to  further  efforts  by  the  cries  and  shouts  of  the  men 
below.  Father  Ludovic  brushed  some  of  the  soft  snow 
from  the  top  of  the  parapet  and  leaned  his  elbows  on  the 
wet  coping-stone. 

"They  will  have  hard  work  to  get  to  the  top,"  he 
said.  "That  wall  is  at  least  four  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
high.  I  cannot  think  how  such  simple  folk — unlearned 
as  they  are  in  science  or  mechanics — are  going  to  avert 
the  danger  that  their  untaught  instinct  warns  them  is 
threatening  them." 

"Danger?"  echoed  Rosamund. 

Father  Ludovic  turned  his  head  and  looked  up  into 
her  inquiring  face. 

"Has  no  one  ever  told  you  the  story  of  the  great  flood 
that  centuries  ago  devastated  these  valleys?  It  is  writ- 
ten in  the  history  of  the  monastery,  and  is  a  legend  with 
the  people  down  there." 

Suddenly  he  started  to  his  full  height. 

"Ah,  the  news  is  bad!  Watch  how  these  two,  perched 
on  that  giddy  height,  wring  their  hands  and  shout  and 
sign  to  their  friends.  See  how  those  below  run  about 
like  frightened  ants." 

And  indeed  in  the  far  distance  the  little  dark  figures, 
alternately  crowding  together  and  then  separating  amid 
the  surrounding  whiteness,  looked  like  terrified  insects. 
In  desperate  haste,  the  two  men  who  had  scaled  the  ice 
barrier  descended  once  more  to  the  ground,  and  then 
there  was  evidently  a  consultation  and  a  drawing  up  of 
plans.  One,  who  from  his  superior  height  and  better 
dress,  seemed  to  be  the  Headman,  began  to  harangue 


THE  BLACK  GLACIER  453 

the  others,  who  pressed  round  him.  They  were  a  motley 
crowd.  Some  wore  the  pleated  white  kirtle  and  the 
richly  embroidered  vest;  others  the  loose,  baggy  Turkish 
trousers  and  the  scarlet  fez ;  others  again — and  they  were 
by  far  the  finest  and  hardiest  men — the  tight  pantaloons 
and  close  fitting  vests  that,  even  on  a  working  day,  were 
of  velvet  covered  with  embroidery. 

In  her  eagerness  to  catch  each  action  of  the  throng, 
Rosamund  leaned  far  over  the  parapet,  unconscious  that 
the  rough,  warm  wind  had  blown  back  the  cowl  from  her 
head  and  that  she  stood  betrayed  for  what  she  was,  a 
woman.  Suddenly  those  below  caught  sight  of  her  and 
her  companions.  A  tall  man  sprang  before  the  others 
and  with  menacing  finger  pointed  up  at  her. 

His  fierce  gestures  were  evidently  accompanied  by 
fiercer  words,  for  the  other  men  surrounded  him,  some 
following  his  waving  hand,  and  others  endeavouring  to 
soothe  him. 

Father  Ludovic,  who  had  grown  strangely  grey  under 
his  brown  skin,  thrust  his  head  further  and  further  over 
the  parapet  as  though  straining  to  catch  the  words  that 
accompanied  the  all-expressive  gestures. 

By-and-bye  he  spoke,  but  without  moving: 

"The  signorina  had  best  go  within." 

As  Paul  made  to  follow  her  he  caught  him  by  the 
habit  and  signed  to  him  to  remain  where  he  was.  For  a 
while  Father  Ludovic  was  silent,  and  when  he  spoke  it 
was  in  grave,  low  tones. 

"I  am  sorry  they  saw  the  signorina.  They  are  a  sav- 
age, undisciplined  people,  and  this  threatened  danger" — 
he  waved  his  hand  towards  the  ice  dam — "may  inflame 
their  superstitious  dislike  to  our  community." 

"But  do  they  really  hate  us?"  asked  Paul. 

"No!     But  they  do  that  which  is  akin  to  hate;  they 


454        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

fear  us.  In  the  summer,  when  the  roads  are  open, 
they  beg  from  us  maize  for  their  fields  and  physic  for 
their  sick.  But  in  their  eyes  we  are  men  who  by  reason 
of  our  ascetic  lives  and  our  abstention  from  all  that 
makes  existence  dear  to  them,  command  a  respect  that 
borders  on  fear.  I  am  afraid  that  now  they  have  seen  a 
woman's  face  and  form  within  our  walls,  that  respect 
and  that  fear  will  turn  to  the  dangerous  fanatical 
hatred  with  which  a  heathen  people  ever  regard  those 
of  a  different  faith." 

"You  think,  then,  that  some  ill  may  come  of  this?" 
Father  Ludovic  did  not  answer,  for  he  was  ever  a  man 
of  few  words.  He  was  gazing  down  into  the  valley  again. 
The  Headman  was  appealing — and  not  in  vain — to  the 
villagers,  to  consider  the  present  danger  that  menaced 
them.  With  agitated  gestures  he  pointed  to  the  great 
ice  wall,  and  seemed  to  be  urging  some  immediate 
action.  One  by  one  the  people  turned  again  to  him, 
leaving  the  tall  man  who  had  first  seen  Rosamund  to 
himself.  The  Headman  now  addressed  his  people. 
Presently  he  snatched  a  pick  from  a  bystander,  and  dash- 
ing at  the  vast  barrier  attacked  it  with  fury.  A  score 
more  followed  -him.  For  a  few  moments  all  seemed 
mere  confusion  to  the  watchers  on  the  terrace.  But  by 
degrees  they  saw  that  a  certain  order  had  been  arranged 
among  the  workers,  and  as  each  body  grew  weary  another 
shift  was  ready  to  take  up  the  task. 

"They  have  a  plan — their  Headman,  Nikleka,  was 
ever  an  able,  quick-witted  fellow.  Brother  Paul,  if,  as 
I  think,  they  have  set  themselves  the  enormous  task  of 
tunnelling  that  vast  wall,  they  will  have  work  that  will 
keep  them  busy  for  many  days.  They  will  have  no  time 
to  think  of  us  or  of  the  signorina. " 


THE  BLACK  GLACIER  455 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  two  monks  repaired  again 
to  the  terrace. 

"It  is  as  I  fancied,"  cried  Father  Ludovic.  "They 
mean  to  try  and  cut  a  tunnel,  through  which  the 
dammed  up  waters  of  the  lake  may  escape  gradually. 
See  how  they  have  marked  out  with  their  picks  the  width 
and  height.  The  idea  is  worthy  of  a  cleverer  head  even 
than  Nikleka,  but  the  task  will  be  a  long  one  and  a  dan- 
gerous." 

The  low  rumble  of  an  avalanche  cut  across  his  words. 
He  shook  his  head. 

"The  snows  are  sliding  fast,  and  help  to  feed  the 
dammed  up  lake,  while  every  warm  day  now  makes 
the  mountain  sides  alive  with  little  rivulets  that  all  flow 
to  the  same  spot." 

"How  much  water  do  you  think  is  there  now?" 

"The  basin  that  the  barrier  has  formed  is  nearly 
seven  thousand  feet  in  length,  and  the  depth  varies  from 
sixty  feet  to  two  hundred.  Remember,  too,  that  every 
hour  the  fast-melting  snows  are  added  to  the  volume  of 
the  prisoned  water." 

"No  wonder  they  work  so  hard,"  said  Paul. 

A  number  of  women  were  dragging  up  the  rough 
road,  now  trodden  to  a  watery  mire,  two  huge  iron 
braziers.  Others  were  laden  with  fuel  and  torches  made 
from  pine  staves. 

"They  mean  to  work  all  night,"  he  added,  as  through 
the  gathering  dusk  the  braziers  were  lit.  Bravely  they 
flared  and  smoked  by  the  side  of  the  miry  road,  while  a 
score  of  torches  flung  a  lurid  light  on  the  ever-shifting 
crowd.  Now  and  then  a  sharp  puff  from  the  warm  west 
wind  drove  heavy  wreaths  of  smoke  across  the  scene, 
but  by-and-bye  some  dusky  figures  dragged  the  fire- 


456        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

baskets  further  under  the  lee  of  the  frozen  barrier,  and 
the  obscuring  curtain  trailed  raggedly  away. 

All  during  that  April  month  and  far  into  May  did  the 
villagers  of  Chatista  work  by  day  and  night,  while  from 
time  to  time  the  Black  Glacier  heaped  fresh  tons  of  ice 
upon  the  lofty  wall,  and  the  melting  snows  slipped  and 
trickled  into  the  lake  that  grew  with  every  hour.  The 
men  worked  now  in  the  very  heart  of  the  icy  mass,  and 
were  only  seen  as  they  went  in  and  came  out  of  the 
tunnel.  At  night  the  braziers  and  torches  shone  like 
giant  rubies  through  the  hundreds  of  feet  of  clear  blue 
ice.  And  Rosamund,  watching  the  strange  scene  from 
her  window,  thought  how  beautiful  it  was,  and  promised 
herself  to  carry  every  detail  of  it  back  to  England  in  her 
memory. 


CHAPTER   XLV 

THE  SIN  OF  SEX 

THE  first  half  of  May  was  lost  in  the  lap  of  time  when 
Rosamund,  leaving  the  terrace  walk  in  the  dusk  of  the 
spring  afternoon,  was  summoned  to  the  Abbot's  presence. 

The  long  winter  had  tried  him  severely,  but  he  rose 
to  his  feet  as  she  entered  the  dim  room. 

"My  daughter!"  he  began  in  a  kindly  voice  that 
trembled  as  he  spoke,  "I  have  sent  for  you  to  say  'fare- 
well.' ' 

"Farewell!     Then  I  may  go?" 

The  brilliant  colour  leaped  to  her  cheeks,  and  her 
eyes  sparkled  like  twin  stars. 

The  Abbot  smiled  back  at  her  a  little  sadly,  and 
bowed  his  head  in  mute  assent. 

At  his  gesture  all  that  was  tender  and  womanly  rose 
within  her.  She  drew  near  him  and  held  out  a  pleading 
hand. 

"I  pray  you,  forgive  me  for  my  hasty  expression  of 
joy.  Gratitude  and  sincere  thankfulness  should  have 
sprung  first  from  my  lips." 

The  old  man  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"My  child,  your  natural  delight  pleases  me,  for  it 
shows  me  that  your  spirits  have  not  suffered  during  your 
long  imprisonment.  Of  gratitude — pay  none  to  us,  but 
rather  to  the  good  God,  who  set  your  feet  in  the  path  to 
this  place.  We  have  but  done  our  duty,  and  in  so  doing 
we  find  our  reward. " 

457 


45$        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

He  moved  over  to  the  table. 

"Here  is  the  pocketbook  that  belonged  to  your  uncle. 
To-morrow  at  dawn  the  lay  brother,  Gabriel,  who  quits 
our  roof,  will  be  your  escort  down  the  mountain  side." 

"Brother  Gabriel— he  is  Hassan — the  Albanian,  is  he 
not?" 

"The  same!  He  will  take  you  on  the  road  so  far  as 
the  great  Cross.  He  knows  the  track  well,  and  will  be  a 
sure  guide." 

"But  I  thought,"  said  Rosamund,  pausing  an  instant, 
"that  a  price  was  set  upon  his  head  down  there — that 
he  dare  not  be  seen  in  the  village." 

"I  did  not  say  he  would  go  to  the  village.  I  told 
you  he  would  take  you  down  to  where  the  roads  meet," 
answered  the  Abbot.  "From  there  the  road  to  Rosega 
is  not  difficult;  and  the  Headman  there  will — if  you  give 
him  this  letter — provide  you  safe  escort  to  Cettinje. " 

With  the  letter  and  the  pocke'tbook  clasped  in  her 
hands  and  her  thanks  all  given,  Rosamund  still  lingered. 

The  Abbot  smiled  inscrutably  into  her  eyes  until  they 
fell,  abashed  at  the  thought  that  he  could  read  the  ques- 
tions her  lips  dared  not  utter. 

"I  myself,  my  daughter,  will  convey  the  news  of 
your  departure  to  those  of  the  community  with  whom 
you  have  been  friendly.  Now,  farewell." 

He  raised  his  hands  in  prayerful  benediction,  and 
Rosamund,  falling  on  her  knees,  received  his  blessing. 

A  gentle  tapping  on  the  panel  of  her  door  roused  the 
girl  at  earliest  daybreak.  Starting  from  her  bed  she 
found  that  already  her  room  was  grey  with  the  pale  light 
of  a  new-born  spring  day.  It  was  a  very  soft  tapping, 
and  for  the  moment  she  thought  she  must  have  dreamed 
the  sound,  until  she  remembered  that  her  hour  of  free- 
dom was  come.  Hastily  dressing  she  unlatched  her 


THE  SIN  OF  SEX  459 

door.  The  Albanian,  Hassan,  with  all  semblance  of  his 
lay  brotherhood  put  aside  with  his  brown  habit,  stood 
outside.  He  had  a  cup  full  of  milk  and  some  bread  in 
his  hands,  which  he  asked  Rosamund  to  take  quickly. 
"We  both  have  to  journey  far  to-day.  We  must  start  at 
once." 

A  few  moments  later  she  was  crossing  the  cloistered 
courtyard.  The  air  there  was  keen  and  damp,  for  the 
sodden  melting  snow  still  lay  in  the  shady  corners. 
The  fawn  with  which  she  had  played  so  often  thrust  a 
velvety  nose  from  the  ill-closed  stable  door  as  she 
passed.  She  patted  it,  and  found  it  in  her  heart  to  be 
sorry  to  leave  the  little  creature.  She  paused,  too,  by 
the  chapel  door,  wondering  if  she  should  steal  in  and 
pray  there  for  the  last  time.  She  had  already  raised  her 
hand  to  push  the  door  open  when  Hassan  caught  her  by 
the  cloak  and  hurried  her  on. 

Outside  the  gloomy  walls  the  day  seemed  lighter  and 
the  air  dry  and  sweet.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps  she  had 
climbed  so  painfully  many  months  ago  the  Albanian 
paused  and  hacked  from  a  bush  a  stout  staff. 

"The  way  is  rough.  You  will  want  it,"  he  said  in 
the  bastard  Italian  he  had  picked  up  while  he  had  been 
in  the  monastery. 

Then  he  ran  up  the  steps  again  and  pulled  the  heavy 
door  to  with  a  crash. 

Rosamund  turned  at  the  sound,  and  with  parted  lips 
and  dewy  eyes  took  silent  leave  of  the  place  that  had 
given  her  life,  love,  and  home. 

"Come  to  me  soon,  my  dearest,  come!"  she  whis- 
pered as  she  set  her  feet  in  the  mountain  path. 

The  snow  had  melted  quite  away  from  the  rough 
track,  and  Rosamund,  now  that  she  faced  a  different 
view  of  her  surroundings,  was  astonished  to  find  how  far 


460        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

the  spring  had  really  advanced.  On  either  side  of  her  the 
fresh  grass  was  growing,  and  already  the  wild  flowers 
were  pushing  their  heads  from  among  the  tender  green 
leaves.  Down  the  mountain  side  on  her  right  little 
silver  streams  slipped  like  snakes  among  the  long  grass. 
The  pines  were  fast  shedding  their  dead  needles,  which 
formed  a  fragrant  carpet  about  their  feet,  and  pale  green 
spiky  sprouts  decorated  the  tip  of  every  branch.  Over- 
head the  sky  was  a  brilliant  blue  that  grew  deeper  and 
clearer  as  the  moments  went  by.  Some  shrill-voiced 
birds  were  singing  high  above  her  head  and  mingling 
their  spring  song  with  the  feeble  bleat  of  the  baby  lambs 
down  in  the  meadows  below. 

The  way  wound  so  abruptly  down  the  mountain  side 
that  in  a  few  moments  she  had  lost  sight  of  the  great 
grey  building  where  she  had  passed  so  many  months,  and 
when  she  looked  back  it  was  only  to  find  the  pine  forest 
clustering  closely  about  her,  and  no  trace  of  human 
habitation  within  sight  or  sound.  The  only  being  was 
the  tall  Albanian,  who  strode  before  her  with  heavy, 
sure  steps  in  the  loose  stone  path,  and  who  as  he  walked 
looked  now  and  again  with  eager  eyes  from  side  to  side. 

The  solitude,  save  for  the  carolling  of  the  birds  and 
the  silent,  swinging  figure  of  Hassan,  was  so  complete, 
that  Rosamund  was  unduly  startled  by  suddenly  catching 
sight  of  a  figure  crouched  in  the  shelter  of  some  low- 
growing  bushes.  Even  as  she  turned  astonished  eyes  in 
that  direction,  the  man  slipped  out  of  sight  so  quickly 
and  silently  that  she  thought  the  appearance  merely 
a  trick  of  imagination. 

Yet  a  vague  sensation  that  stealthy  footsteps  and 
peering  eyes  were  dogging  her  progress  grew  on  her 
startled  senses,  and  with  a  new  feeling  at  her  heart  she 
hastened  her  pace  down  the  ill-made  path. 


THE  SIN  OF  SEX  461 

Perhaps  it  was  the  sound  of  her  hurrying  steps  or  the 
momentary  flash  of  a  scarlet  fez  from  among  a  clump  of 
pines  that  made  the  Albanian  who  walked  before  her 
suddenly  pause. 

As  Rosamund,  with  throbbing  heart  and  quick-drawn 
breath  came  up  with  him,  he  made  the  salutation,  as  of 
lifting  his  garment  to  his  breast,  his  mouth,  and  his  fore- 
head, which  she  had  seen  in  the  mountain  villages. 

She  saw  at  once  that  he  was  pale,  and  that  every 
moment  his  fine,  blue  eyes  stared  to  right  and  left.  "I 
must  leave  you  here,"  he  said,  hurriedly. 

"Leave  me  here?"  cried  Rosamund.  "The  Abbot 
told  me  you  would  set  me  in  the  path  for  the  village  of 
Rosega." 

He  pointed  with  his  staff  down  the  mountain  side, 
and  she  saw  that  the  hand  that  carried  it  shook. 

"There  is  only  this  path  till  you  come  to  the  great 
Cross,  and  then  there  is  one  road  up  the  valley  and 
another  that  goes  down  to  Rosega.  You  cannot  make  a 
mistake;  there  are  no  other  ways." 

"And  you — what  will  become  of  you?" 

He  glanced  fearfully  about  him  before  he  answered 
hurriedly:  "They  told  me  in  the  monastery  that  I  must 
go  when  the  spring  came.  I  owe  a  debt  of  blood,  and 
they  do  not  wish  me  to  pay  it  up  there.  I  am  going 
to  make  for  the  pass  by  a  goat  track,  and  so  get  down  to 
Greece.  Farewell." 

In  another  second  he  plunged  into  a  thicket,  and  a 
moment  later  even  his  footsteps  crashing  among  the 
dried  ferns  and  loose  stones  could  be  heard  no  longer. 

Rosamund  was  determined  to  let  not  even  the  shadow 
of  fear  possess  her.  The  day  was  too  fair  to  admit  any 
doubt  of  happiness  or  security.  It  was  down  hill  to 
Rosega,  where  doubtless  the  people  would  remember 


462         THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

her  as  having  passed  among  them  the  previous  autumn, 
and  if  now  and  again  a  pair  of  eyes  peeped  from  among 
the  bushes,  or  a  heavily  armed  man  slunk  across  her 
road,  she  could  scarcely  hope  to  have,  on  such  a  fair 
spring  day,  the  whole  teeming,  sun-bathed  mountain 
path  to  herself. 

There  could  be  nothing  to  fear. 

She  pushed  back  the  hood  from  her  head  and  let  the 
sunshine  play  upon  her  face  and  hair.  She  tried  once 
more  to  see  if  she  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  monas- 
tery where  Paul  still  was,  and  then  she  smiled  to  think 
that  perhaps  in  another  few  hours  his  feet  would  tread 
where  hers  were  now,  and  that  he  would  hurry  down  the 
steep  track  to  join  her. 

The  birds  sang  on,  and  the  sky  grew  bluer.  At  every 
fresh  turn  a  thousand  little  streams  came  into  view,  rat- 
tling and  tinkling  in  their  self-made  courses.  Every 
yard  that  she  descended  the  bleating  of  the  lambs  and 
the  lowing  of  the  cows,  turned  after  the  long  winter  into 
the  sweet,  fresh  pastures,  sounded  clearer  and  plainer, 
and  Rosamund,  full  of  thanks  to  God  and  gratitude  to 
man  that  she  had  been  preserved  from  an  awful  death 
and  had  lived  safely  and  warmly  through  the  past  dreary 
months,  thrust  her  strong  staff  into  the  loose  stones 
before  her,  and  with  light  feet  almost  ran  down  the 
mountain  side. 

She  ran  on  with  light  in  her  eyes  and  a  song  on  her 
lips.  Every  pulse  throbbed  with  the  joy  of  motion  and 
the  passing  of  the  sweet,  soft  air  across  her  face. 

She  ran  on  until  by  degrees  her  lightly  moving  feet 
scarcely  touched  the  ground  in  her  swift  flight,  until 
the  lilting  song  died  on  her  white  lips,  and  the  blood  ran 
icy  cold  through  her  veins.  For  all  unconsciously  the 
knowledge  came  to  her  that  she  was  being  followed. 


THE  SIN  OF  SEX  463 

She  never  turned  her  head  or  looked  from  right  to  left,  but 
the  rustle  of  the  bushes,  the  rattle  of  stones  in  the  loose 
path,  the  short  pant  of  heavily  drawn  breath,  warned 
her  keen  senses  that  her  footsteps  were  beset  on  all  sides. 

She  ran  on,  till  the  whole  vista  of  the  smiling  valley 
was  stretched  out  before  her  unseeing  eyes;  ran  till  the 
track  was  flat  and  she  knew  she  was  near  the  cross  roads. 
It  was  then  that  her  foot  slipped  on  a  round  stone,  and 
she  must  have  fallen  prone  in  the  path  had  not  a  strong 
hand  gripped  her  by  the  arm. 

"Well  run!  well  run!"  cried  a  mocking  voice  in  her 
ears. 

With  a  fierce  energy  born  of  a  ghastly  terror  she  tried 
to  twist  herself  from  the  determined  clutch. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  cried,  holding  her  head  high  and 
looking  about  her. 

Before  her  lay  the  divided  ways,  one  leading  uphill  to 
the  monastery,  one  round  the  base  of  the  low  hill  she 
remembered,  towards  the  village,  the  third,  which  was 
barred  by  the  sharp  black  shadow  of  the  Black  Cross, 
down  to  Rosega.  But  all  this  her  eyes  saw  in  a  flash, 
for  a  moment  later  she  was  walled  about  with  men  and 
women,  gaunt,  fierce  people  who  seemed  to  spring  out  of 
the  earth. 

It  was  a  tall,  black-browed  man  who  held  her  in  so 
close  a  grasp. 

"Hold  her,  Agar!"  cried  the  others.  "Bring  her  to 
the  village." 

"That  Nikleka  should  let  her  go  again?"  exclaimed 
Agar. 

A  woman,  bent  and  hideous,  thrust  her  way  through 
the  crowd  and  leered  up  in  the  girl's  white  face. 

"What's  that  about  Nikleka?"  she  screamed.  "Agar 
is  right;  the  Headman  would  only  set  the  witch  free." 


464        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

The  beldame's  voice  rose  to  a  wild  shriek  as  she  raised 
her  withered  arms  aloft. 

"You've  got  the  Sin  of  the  Christian  here — the  Sin 
under  which  we've  groaned  and  starved  and  died  all  the 
winter  through.  Let  the  Punishment  be  here  as  well." 

A  wild  yell  answered  the  hag's  words  as  the  crowd 
closed  in  on  the  fainting  girl. 


CHAPTER   XLVI 

THE   FLOOD 

OVERNIGHT — the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Rosamund 
had  left  the  monastery — the  Abbot  had  sent  for  Paul 
and  told  him  that  as  the  term  of  his  vows  had  expired 
he  was  free  to  leave  the  monastery. 

"The  signorina  has  already  gone  twelve  hours,"  he 
had  said.  "It  was  to  save  scandal  that  I  did  not 
allow  you  to  leave  together,  and  it  is  to  prevent  undue 
comment  among  the  brotherhood  that  I  wish  you  to  go 
in  the  morning  without  farewells  or  speech  with  any 
one." 

The  morning  was  a  symphony  of  blue  and  gold. 
The  sun  was  making  a  royal  progress  up  the  heavens  as 
Paul  sprang  from  his  bed  and  made  his  final  preparations 
for  departure.  At  the  last  he  caught  up  his  strong 
oaken  staff  and  heavy  cloak,  and  from  sheer  habit  thrust 
a  knife  and  pair  of  long-barrelled  pistols  into  his  girdle. 
A  moment  later  he  was  treading  the  polished  floor  of 
the  quiet  corridor  and  the  stone  staircase  that  led  to  the 
cloisters. 

Over  the  well-worn  flags  he  hurried  to  the  iron- 
studded  door  which  swung  on  chased  hinges  in  the  thick 
stone  wall. 

He  stood  upon  the  flight  of  rough  steps,  and  with  the 
joy  of  a  free  man  inhaled  deep  breaths  of  the  sweet 
morning  air.  He  looked  about  him  in  all  the  delight 
and  wonder  with  which  a  man  regards  a  new  world. 

465 


466        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

In  the  night  a  great  snow  field  had  slipped  from  the 
rocky  side  of  the  overhanging  mountain.  The  scattered 
snow  lay  in  patches  and  heaps  everywhere,  but  the  sun 
was  fast  reducing  them  to  sparkling  rivulets.  Close  by 
the  edges  of  the  track  the  hardy  Alpine  roses  were  put- 
ting forth  green  shining  buds  from  their  fantastically 
twisted  branches. 

In  a  hollow  where  the  snow  still  lay,  the  tawny  hairs 
of  curled  fern  fronds  had  pushed  valiantly  through. 
Paul  remembered  that  last  May  the  ground  about  there 
was  carpeted  with  dancing  harebells.  How  beautiful  it 
had  all  been  then,  and  how  beautiful  it  would  all  be 
again — when  he  and  Rosamund  were  far  away  amid  the 
rolling  English  grasslands. 

As  he  set  foot  upon  the  ground  and  followed  the  path 
that  ran  beneath  the  outer  wall  of  the  monastery  before 
beginning  to  descend,  a  rain  of  song  floated  down  to 
him  from  the  brilliant  ether  above.  It  was  a  lark, 
carolling  its  morning  hymn.  To  Paul  its  notes  sounded 
sweet  and  clear  as  a  message  from  God.  Jubilant  he 
strode  past  the  frowning  walls  till  he  rounded  an  angle 
and  faced  the  rolling  panorama  of  the  valley  and  the 
further  mountain  range. 

Save  where  a  beetling  crag  cast  a  cold  shadow,  or  a 
deep  cleft  marred  the  mountain  side,  all  the  lower  slopes 
and  undulating  spurs  were  free  from  snow  and  looked  in 
the  morning  sun  as  though  spread  with  carpets  of  bril- 
liant emerald  green.  Here  and  there  were  dotted 
groups  of  browsing  cattle  and  white,  heavy-fleeced 
sheep,  at  whose  sides  new-born  lambs  nestled  and 
played. 

Though  he  had  every  incentive  to  hurry,  he  was  for 
the  moment  content  to  saunter  down  the  first  sharp  dip 
in  the  path.  As  he  went  slowly  on,  his  gaze  remained 


THE  FLOOD  467 

riveted  on  the  fair  expanse  of  pasture  land.  He  watched 
some  women  cross  a  field.  They  were  calling  the  cows 
to  be  milked.  He  knew  that  in  reality  they  were  toil- 
worn,  unwashed  creatures,  but  to  him — at  that  exquisite 
moment  when  the  fulfilment  of  his  own  desires  was  so 
near  attainment — they  represented  the  sweetest  ties  of 
humanity  and  home.  The  tender  thought  that  but  a  few 
hours  before  his  love  had  gazed  upon  the  same  scene, 
set  him  dreaming  for  a  while  about  her  and  of  the  life 
that  was  so  soon  to  come  to  them  together. 

"How  brave — how  dear — she  is,"  he  murmured 
fondly  to  himself.  "What  other  woman's  love  would 
have  stood  such  trials  and  such  temptations?  Oh! 
Rosamund,  my  love,  my  heart,  nothing  that  I  can  ever 
do  can  requite  you  for  your  staunch  faith — your  trust  in 
me.  From  the  hour  in  which  I  join  you,  I  swear  to 
devote  my  whole  life  to  you  and  to  your  happiness. 
God  send  it  may  be  soon!  God  send  it  may  be — " 

Suddenly  a  great  crash  split  the  air.  With  it  came 
the  cries  of  men  and  the  booming  thunder  of  swiftly 
running  water.  At  the  sound  Paul  gathered  the  heavy 
folds  of  his  cloak  about  him  and  ran  with  sure,  swift  feet 
down  the  stony  path.  It  twisted  so  erratically  between 
high  rocks  and  overhanging  pines  that  in  his  impatience 
he  fancied  he  had  missed  his  way.  But  suddenly  a  sharp 
turn  brought  him  again  within  full  view  of  the  ice  dam 
and  the  prisoned  lake  behind  it. 

"The  water  flows!  Thank  God!  The  water  flows," 
he  cried. 

The  work  of  thirty-six  days  and  nights  had  met  with 
its  reward  at  last.  From  the  great,  gaping  mouth  of  the 
tunnel  cut  in  the  wall  of  ice  a  mighty  jriver  of  thick, 
creamy  snow  water  was  pouring  at  fearful  speed. 

It  foamed  and  roared  as  it  struck  the  earth  and  tore 


468        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

a  course  for  itself  through  the  mire  and  slush,  fighting 
its  way  to  its  natural  channel.  Blocks  of  dislodged  ice, 
and  masses  of  frozen  snow  were  forced  through  the  open- 
ing. They  shook  the  earth  as  they  fell,  but  the  people 
only  waved  gleeful  hands  as  they  stood  and  watched  the 
waterfall. 

The  sight  was  grand  and  fascinating,  but  his  heart 
urged  his  feet  to  leave  the  spot.  For  a  few  moments 
the  pathway  overhung  the  valley,  then  the  track  took  an 
easier  gradient  and^  bent  its  course  round  a  small  wood 
of  hardy  pine  trees.  As  he  stepped  within  their  shelter, 
the  roaring  of  the  liberated  waters  sank  to  a  murmurous 
song,  which  harmonised  with  the  twitter  of  the  mating 
birds  and  the  soft  sighing  of  the  western  breezes  in  the 
waving  branches,  and  helped  to  make  love  music  in  his 
ears.  Out  of  very  joy  he  sang  too.  Strains  that  breathed 
of  love  and  nature — strains  that  he  had  thought  never 
to  sing  again  rose  in  his  heart  and  poured  from  his  lips. 
His  feet  and  the  sharp  ring  of  his  iron-shod  staff  beat 
time  to  the  songs  and  kept  him  company  until  the  swell- 
ing thunder  of  the  torrent  once  more  grew  insistent  and 
warned  him  that  the  pathway  was  bearing  him  again 
towards  the  face  of  the  mountain  and  a  view  of  the  valley. 

What  a  crowd  there  was  about  the  waterfall.  Bent 
harridans  and  dotards  waggled  their  palsied  heads;  half- 
naked  brats  splashed  in  the  ooze;  women,  all  cumbered 
with  their  flowing  garments,  heaped  together  a  false 
bank  for  the  foaming  waters;  the  men  lounged  and 
laughed  and  exchanged  greetings. 

Suddenly  a  sound  of  music — a  rolling,  sonorous*  hymn 
floated  up  to  him.  The  populace  knelt  and  with  raised 
hands  and  fervent  voices  thanked  Allah  that  the  dread- 
ful winter  was  passed  and  the  danger  which  had  threat- 
ened their  lives  and  homesteads  was  averted. 


THE  FLOOD  469 

As  the  people -rose  to  their  feet  again,  Paul  crossed 
himself  and  murmured  "Amen!"  then  set  out  once  more 
upon  his  way. 

He  was  now  half-way  down  the  mountain  of  Argen- 
talia,  and  the  bleak  monastery,  hanging  cold  and  grey 
on  the  cruel  crag,  looked  from  where  he  stood  a  mere 
rock  among  rocks.  How  sweetly  different  the  scene  was 
about  him. 

Long  grasses  and  starry  flowers  peeped  out  shyly  from 
the  rough  shelter  of  moss-grown  boulders.  The  low 
bushes  and  saplings  were  tufted  with  bunches  of  bursting 
leaves.  Glancing  between  the  trees  as  he  went,  he  saw 
a  shepherd  lad  leading  a  flock  of  sheep  up  th'e  slopes  of 
a  mountain  on  the  further  side  of  the  valley  to  sweeter 
pastures. 

The  watercourse  that  meandered  along  the  bottom 
of  the  valley  was  full,  and  the  white,  frothy  waters  shone 
like  molten  metal  in  the  sun.  All  about  his  feet  little 
streamlets  sang  blithe  songs  as  they  twisted  like  gleam- 
ing ribbons  from  shady  spots  where  the  snow  lay  wet  and 
soft,  out  to  the  free,  warm  air  of  the  mountain  side.  A 
butterfly,  with  gorgeous  colouring,  shining  like  cut  gems, 
danced  across  Paul's  path. 

His  eager  steps  brought  him  to  a  sheltered  hollow  low 
on  the  southern  flank  of  the  mountain.  It  was  a  favoured 
spot,  where  spring  had  fully  come,  and  the  tall,  pale 
green  fern  sprang  from  a  gaudy  carpet  of  multi-coloured 
blossoms. 

He  pulled  his  cowl  over  his  head,  for  the  sun  was  hot, 
then  flung  himself  upon  the  scented  earth  to  rest  a  mo- 
ment before  surmounting  the  low  hill  which  would  lead 
him  to  the  cross  roads  and  the  track  to  Rosega.  Before 
him  lay  the  sun-bathed  panorama,  backed  by  the  great 
lake  and  the  everlasting  mountains.  He  was  facing  the 


47°        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

waterfall  now,  and  could  see  it  very  clearly,  though  the 
distance  softened  its  mighty  roar  to  his  ears. 

Suddenly  he  leaned  forward  with  both  elbows  on  his 
knees. 

"I  did  not  think  they  had  made  so  wide  a  tunnel,"  he 
said  to  himself,  with  puckered  brows.  "It  looks  so  large 
from  here — as  though  the  waters  themselves  had  cut  the 
ice  away  and  widened  the. aperture. " 

As  the  words  still  lingered  on  his  lips  and  in  his  brain 
the  whole  mountain  trembled  beneath  him.  With  the 
hideous  splitting  sound,  as  of  a  riven  creation,  his  hor- 
rified eyes  saw  the  mighty  wall  of  ice  flung  skywards  in 
ten  thousand  pieces.  Huge  blocks  of  ice  were  tossed 
aloft  like  pebbles,  and  in  their  fall  rent  and  ground  one 
another  with  a  sickening  crash.  It  was  as  though  a  giant 
explosion  had  liberated  the  vast  lake  from  its  imprison- 
ment. 

The  immense  weight  of  water  had  burst  the  under- 
mined ramparts  of  ice,  which  now,  like  a  vast  wall  toppling 
to  earth,  fell  in  one  terrific  volume  on  the  village. 

As  the  awful  mass  of  water  struck  the  quivering 
ground,  it  uplifted  fields  and  pastures  like  a  gigantic 
plough.  The  tender  green  maize  and  the  newly  grown 
grass  were  torn  up  in  sods  that  the  water  soaked  instantly 
into  pulp. 

Amid  the  swirling  waves  the  cottages  of  mud  and 
laths  melted  and  sank  into  the  furious  waters,  as  sand 
castles  disappear  at  the  first  touch  of  a  rising  tide. 
With  a  ripping  sound  the  wooden,  white  dome  of  the 
mosque  was  wrenched  from  its  supporting  walls,  which  in 
their  turn  were  split  to  matchwood. 

An  orchard,  hung  with  white  blossoms  and  set  like  a 
fair  bouquet  amid  the  green,  was  crushed  into  nothing- 
ness, and  only  a  branch  of  delicate  bloom  floating  mo- 


THE  FLOOD  471 

mentarily  upon  the  dark  bosom  of  the  furious  flood 
showed  that  it  had  ever  existed.  The  grazing  flocks  and 
gambolling  lambs  were  caught  in  the  icy  water  and 
strangled  out  of  life,  and  the  quiet  herds  were  swept  like 
flies  off  the  fields  where  they  were  browsing.  In  irresisti- 
ble, rolling  waves  that  thundered  and  foamed,  the 
waters  tore  at  the  mountain's  sides.  Enormous  boulders 
that  for  centuries  had  rested  among  the  swards  were  torn 
from  their  beds  and  plunged  headlong  into  the  flood, 
leaving  behind  them  in  the  grass-grown  slopes  gaping 
empty  places  that  yawned  like  open,  bleeding  wounds. 

Still  the  insatiable  waves  leapt  on  and  up.  A  shep- 
herd's hut  here,  a  sheltered  group  of  maize  ricks  there, 
were  plucked  away  and  tossed  into  the  hideous  broth. 
Higher  the  flood  rose,  louder  it  roared,  hissing  and  boiling 
about  a  thick  belt  of  lordly  pine  trees.  Root  and  branch 
the  waters  dragged  them  from  their  mother  earth  and 
flung  them  hither  and  thither — mere  slivers  of  splintered 
wood — in  the  awful  chaos. 

The  great  mass  of  water  dashed  ^its  ice-strewn  waves 
from  side  to  side  of  the  valley  till  the  mountains  rocked 
to  their  foundations.  To  Paul,  paralysed  at  the  fearful 
spectacle,  the  quivering  of  the  earth  and  the  wild  chaos 
of  the  churning  waters  seemed  heralds  of  complete  dis- 
solution. 

"My  God!"  he  cried  at  last,  and  scrambling  to  his 
feet.  "The  flood !— the  flood ! ' ' 


CHAPTER   XLVII 

THE   PASSION   OF   ROSAMUND 

MAD  with  sheer  terror,  unseeing,  unthinking,  with  only 
the  animal  instinct  of  self-preservation  hammering  at  his 
brain,  Paul  started  to  run.  The  track  trended  upwards 
again  over  the  brow  of  the  low  hill  beyond  which  lay  the 
cross  roads.  The  way  was  rough  and  the  loose  stones 
slipping  from  beneath  his  flying  feet  tripped  him  at  every 
yard.  But  he  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  that  he  must 
run  or  die.  A  pandemonium  of  roaring  water,  a  veritable 
hell  of  human  cries  pierced  the  shuddering  air,  but  he 
ran  on  with  never  a  backward  look  or  a  thought  of  help- 
ing any  drowning  creature. 

At  last  he  surmounted  the  hill.  The  path  sloped 
gently  downwards  to  where  the  cross  roads,  themselves 
elevated  above  the  level  of  the  valley,  met.  The  flood, 
which  was  swirling  like  a  millrace  round  the  spur  of  the 
hill  on  which  Paul  stood,  had  not  yet  drawn  the  narrow 
tracks  into  its  devouring  embrace.  So  much  and  no 
more  his  wild  eyes  saw  as  he  plunged  headlong  downhill, 
racing  with  death,  until  at  the  foot  of  the  Black  Cross  he 
paused  a  moment  for  breath. 

His  heart  beat  like  an  iron  hammer  in  his  breast,  the 
blood  thundered  louder  than  the  rising  waters  in  his 
ears.  His  eyes  were  strained  to  bursting.  He  pressed 
his  hot  palms  over  them. 

"Paul!  Paul!" 

He  hesitated  and  turned  his  pale  face  back  over  his 
472 


THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  473 

shoulder.  Was  it  the  sound  of  the  waters,  or  the  scream 
of  some  drowning  woman,  or  the  echoing  cries  of  the 
frightened  birds  that  seemed  to  shape  his  name? 

"Paul!  Paul!" 

Weak  and  yet  piercing,  distant  and  yet  at  hand,  his 
name  throbbed  on  the  air  and  rang  in  his  ears. 

"Paul!" 

It  was  like  a  sigh,  so  mysterious  that  the  hair  rose 
on  his  head  and  the  hot  blood  flowed  back  cold  to  his 
heart. 

"Paul!" 

The  word  was  scarcely  articulate,  yet  it  crashed  upon 
his  senses  with  a  voice  of  thunder. 

It  sounded  like  Rosamund's  voice  that  called,  and  it 
was  Rosamund's  name  he  hurled  again  and  again  to  the 
empty  sky  and  the  roaring  waters  and  the  ever-circling 
screaming  birds,  that,  save  himself,  seemed  the  only  liv- 
ing things  in  all  that  awful  valley. 

"Paul!  Paul!" 

The  wailing  cry  tortured  him. 

"My  love!  My  love!  Where  are  you?"  he  gasped 
between  the  breaths  that  came  like  sobs  from  his  heav- 
ing chest. 

As  he  spoke,  a  long,  rolling  wave  dashed  madly 
against  some  jagged  rocks  that  rose  near  his  right  hand. 
The  waters  broke  with  a  roar  and  flung  a  cloud  of 
spray  high  above  the  rocks  and  Paul  and  the  Black  Cross. 
He  was  brushing  the  icy  drops  from  his  eyes  when  he 
heard  his  name  again: 

"Paul!" 

The  sound  came  like  the  sigh  of  a  departing  spirit — 
from  the  clear  air.  He  raised  his  haggard  face  and  then 
gave  a  loud  cry  in  which  despair  and  love,  rage  and  hor- 
ror were  commingled. 


474 

Far,  far  above  him,  with  only  the  clear,  blue  sky  for 
a  background  and  her  maiden  purity  for  a  garment,  hung 
Rosamund  Keith,  lashed  by  rough  thongs  and  ropes  of 
leather  to  the  gigantic  Crucifix. 

He  clasped  his  hands  before  his  aching  eyes  to  shut 
out  the  dreadful  vision,  praying  as  he  did  so  that  when 
he  looked  again  it  might  prove  to  be  nothing  more  than 
a  hideous  dream. 

But  when  he  dropped  his  clenched  fingers  to  his  heart 
and  raised  his  tortured  gaze  again  the  figure  and  the 
Cross  were  still  there. 

Across  the  gracious  curves  of  her  white  body  and  the 
sweet  fulness  of  her  bosom  her  unbound  hair  waved  like 
a  gauzy  veil,  enhancing  the  silver  fairness  of  her  flesh. 
One  long  tendril  whipped  the  brisk  air  and  fluttered 
like  a  waving  black  ribbon  out  against  the  azure  heavens. 
From  throat  to  feet  the  spray  from  the  dashing  waves 
sparkled  on  her  marble  skin  like  glittering  gems.  Some 
of  the  drops  hung  on  her  pale  cheeks  and  looked  like 
tears. 

In  her  passion  she  seemed  unearthly,  for  the  light  of 
her  eyes  gleamed  sombrely  beneath  her  drooping  white 
lids,  and  it  was  only  when  he  saw  the  bow  of  her  sad 
mouth  part  now  and  again  in  the  unconscious  uttering  of 
his  name  that  Paul  realised  that  it  was  his  beloved  who 
hung  martyred  above  him. 

"God  of  Heaven!  She  is  dying!  They  have  cruci- 
fied her!" 

At  last  Paul's  sleeping  manhood  woke  in  him;  his 
virility  and  courage  stirred  at  length. 

With  his  knife  between  his  teeth  he  leapt  upon  the 
stony  mound,  and  with  hands  and  knees  clutched  the 
rugged  Cross.  He  first  hastily  hacked  through  the  leather 
thongs  that  bound  her  feet,  but  the  groan  that  parted 


THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  475 

her  white  lips  as  the  whole  weight  of  her  body  swung 
from  her  bruised  wrists  stabbed  him  to  the  heart. 

"Courage!  my  love,  courage!"  he  cried,  as  he  pain- 
fully dragged  himself  higher  and  with  frantic  efforts 
slashed  at  the  cruel  bonds. 

The  contact  of  his  body,  the  sound  of  his  voice 
seemed  to  rouse  in  the  girl  some  fearful  memory.  Her 
great  eyes,  filled  with  an  awful  horror,  opened  wide,  her 
mouth  parted  in  an  effort  to  scream. 

"Rosamund!  'Tis  I!  Paul!"  he  gasped,  with  chill 
fear  knocking  at  his  heart,  as  he  struggled  to  unloose 
the  knotted  ropes. 

The  blinding  spray  from  the  tossing  waves  dashed 
again  in  his  face,  the  bitter  drops  stinging  like  the  lash 
of  a  whip. 

He  could  hear  the  stones  at  the  foot  of  the  Crucifix 
slipping  into  the  ever-rising  waters,  he  could  feel  the 
great  tree  tremble  and  sway  with  every  motion  of  his 
body.  Would  the  knife  never  sever  the  fastenings,  or 
must  they  die  together? 

With  a  final  mighty  effort  he  cut  the  last  strand,  and 
the  white  wonder  of  Rosamund's  body  fell  forward  into 
his  arms. 

"Paul!"  she  cried  in  a  low  voice,  as  she  felt  his 
warm  lips  pressed  against  her  cold  cheek. 

He  saw  now  how  the  flood  had  swollen,  and  how  like 
a  boiling  rapid  it  came  tearing  between  the  jutting  spurs 
of  the  mountains.  So  high  had  the  water  risen  that 
already  between  the  Cross  and  the  slope  of  the  grassy 
hill  down  which  he  had  run  in  his  anxiety  to  escape,  a 
pool  had  formed.  He  knew  that  the  next  wave  must 
drag  the  fatal  tree  and  all  that  surrounded  it  to  the  uni- 
versal destruction  on  all  sides. 

Bracing  himself  for  one  last  struggle,  he  put  forth  all 


476        THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  KEITH 

his  strength,  and  with  his  love  held  against  his  heart, 
leapt  the  ever-widening  gulf.  Then,  with  the  water 
streaming  from  the  edges  of  his  cloak,  his  goatskin 
shoes  sodden  to  a  pulp,  and  the  lifeless  form  of  the  girl 
he  loved  in  his  arms,  he  toiled  up  the  steep  rugged  path, 
scaling  rocks  and  fording  streams,  and  only  raising  his 
eyes  from  her  dear  face  to  seek  some  safe,  sun-warmed 
spot,  where  he  might  lay  his  burden  down. 

His  head  swam  and  his  knees  trembled  under  him 
before  he  found  the  refuge  he  sought.  It  was  a  nook 
high  up  in  the  mountains,  flower-carpeted,  and  hedged 
about  with  tall  ferns  and  low,  thick  bushes.  From  the 
rock  that  overhung  it  fell  a  tiny  stream  with  a  tinkle 
like  the  ringing  of  fairy  bells.  Folding  his  cloak  about 
Rosamund,  and  binding  for  greater  warmth  the  long 
masses  of  her  hair  about  her  throat,  he  chafed  the  blood 
back  to  her  clay-cold  feet  and  poor  bruised  wrists. 

She  moaned,  even  at  his  tender  touch,  but  the  heavy 
lids  still  hung  over  her  eyes,  and  her  mouth  was  grey 
and  drawn.  Almost  in  despair  he  filled  his  curved  palms 
from  the  singing  stream  and  dashed  the  water  in  her  face. 

"Paul!"  had  been  her  last  cry  and  "Paul!"  was  her 
first  on  wakening. 

"Dearest  love,   I  am  here.       Please   God!     you  are 
safe!"  he  murmured,  bending  over  her. 
I  ^  She  smiled  up  at  him,  expressing  all  her  love  and  her 
gratitude  in  one  look  of  her  radiant  trust.' 

With  reviving  strength  came  confidence  and  courage, 
and  while  Paul  pulled  some  broad,  cool  leaves  and  bound 
them  with  long  grass  about  her  wounded  white  wrists 
and  slender  feet,  from  sheer  exhaustion  she  fell  asleep. 
He  kissed  her  as  he  folded  her  closer  in  the  cloak. 

He  went  a  little  way  apart  to  seek  a  path  which  they 
might  follow  to  shelter  and  safety.  Higher  up  the  hill 


THE  PASSION  OF  ROSAMUND  477 

he  turned  and  gazed  down  at  the  ruin  that  spread  from 
end  to  end  of  the  valley.  He  saw  the  waste  of  waters, 
surging  to  and  fro,  dashing  high  hungry  waves  over 
barren  mountain  slopes  that  less  than  an  hour  back  had 
looked  so  green  and  peaceful.  The  turgid,  foam-flecked 
surface  of  the  flood  was  broken  with  the  wreckage  of  a 
hundred  farms  and  homesteads.  Cattle  and  the  women 
who  had  tended  them,  babes  and  their  bearded  fathers, 
ricks  of-  maize,  straw,  and  hay,  fragments  of  houses  and 
of  the  white  mosque  itself,  tossed  in  one  frightful  chaos 
of  destruction  and  death  on  the  boiling  waters;  while 
now  and  then,  as  though  the  work  were  not  yet  done, 
mighty  ice  floes  rolled  by,  crushing  to  pulp  everything 
that  came  in  their  furious  course. 

Over  all  the  terrible  scene  the  sweet  sun  shone 
and  birds,  heavy  in  flight  and  cruel-beaked,  wheeled  and 
croaked.  Sickened  at  last,  he  turned  from  the  terrible 
sight,  and  made  his  way  over  the  side  of  the  mountain. 
As  he  climbed  the  brow  of  the  hill  the  blue  smoke  of  a 
camp  fire  met  his  sight  and  the  welcome  sound  of  voices 
struck  his  ears. 

He  hastened  back  to  Rosamund,  who  had  already 
wakened  and  was  calling  his  name.  At  sight  of  Paul  she 
struggled  to  her  feet,  but  tottered  weakly  and  stretched 
out  her  hands  in  a  mute  appeal  for  his  support. 

He  hastened  to  her,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"Dearest,  come  away  from  this  place.  I  have  found 
help  and  good  people  who  will  take  us  to  safety  and  hap- 
piness." 

She  raised  her  dark  eyes,  swimming  with  love  and 
tears  to  his  face. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the  mouth. 


PRINTED  BY  R.  R.  DONNELLEY 
AND  SONS  COMPANY  AT  THE 
LAKESIDE  PRESS,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 


•"  "in  minim  minim  mi  |||l 

A    000126858    o 


THE  PASSION  OF 
ROSAMUND KEITH 

BY 
MARTIN  I.  PRITCHARD 


